


Next on my List

by Em_Jaye



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Sandman (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on Neil Gaiman's The Sandman, Death, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Idiots in Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stubborn Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25754284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em_Jaye/pseuds/Em_Jaye
Summary: Steve Rogers has been flirting with Death for a while now...
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers, Death of the Endless/Steve Rogers
Comments: 411
Kudos: 505





	1. 1945

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellerigby13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellerigby13/gifts).



> Heeyyyyy I don't know what I'm doing. Other than answering a call someone placed into the void to see Darcy Lewis as Death of the Endless thanks to Kat adding her sweet voice to the audio production that was just released on Audible. 
> 
> Hope you like!

In February of 1945, Steve Rogers pointed the Valkyrie into a nosedive directly into the Arctic circle. He was conscious for the impact, felt the harsh jolt as the plane touched the water. It didn’t sink as fast as he thought it would. He had time to kill. Time to watch the icy water fill the cabin, to get out of the cockpit and say a prayer for himself that death would be quick. Kind. Merciful. That he would see his mother, his father, Bucky again. That this wasn’t all for nothing.

She was standing over him when he opened his eyes. She was pretty—pale with pinned back dark hair and large blue eyes and full lips pressed into a sad, sympathetic smile. She wore a dark blue dress. “Hi Steve,” she said quietly.

He sat up, blinking. “Hi,” he echoed uncertainly. He looked around. He was still in the cabin of the plane but it was darker, a soft gray haze over the details. “Where am I?”

“You’re right where you were when you closed your eyes,” she said before her chin moved, motioning to look behind him.

He did. He thought it would have been stranger, seeing himself out of his own body, but it wasn’t. It was oddly calming. He looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping—he’d always thought that was a meaningless platitude, but it was the truth in his case. He turned back to the woman. “And…who are you?”

But he already knew.

Another smile—patient, like this was a question she was asked a lot. “I’m just here to walk you home,” she said and extended her hand.

He nodded and took a deep breath, steadying himself for some kind of transport. Something to happen when his fingers closed around hers.

Only nothing did.

He waited another moment before he looked up from their joined hands to find her staring down at them with confusion. She squeezed her fingers tighter around his and pulled on his arm. Once. Twice.

“Was…something supposed to happen?” he asked finally.

She didn’t look up but took his hand in both of hers and pulled again, _hard_ , like she was pulling with all of her strength.

He didn’t budge.

Finally, she looked up, her cheeks flushed. “You could help, y’know.”

Steve blinked. “How?” he asked. “I’ve never—what am I supposed to be doing?” He tried to lift his feet, to shuffle toward her, but he couldn’t move. His body ignored the messages his brain was trying to send.

She stopped pulling on his arm and let out a short huff. “I don’t…know,” she said after a moment. “This has never happened before.”

“ _What_ has never happened before?”

“This,” she motioned to the air between them. “If I’m here, that means you’re dead—you’re supposed to come with me.”

“Okay,” he agreed, like she was telling him to get in the car to go on an errand. “Then let’s go.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” she insisted. “It’s as if you’re…” she took his hand again and pulled so hard her feet slid over the floor. “Stuck.”

“Stuck?” he repeated. “How can I be stuck?”

“If I _knew_ ,” she looked up at him through thick eyelashes, “you wouldn’t be stuck anymore, would you? I’d know how to get you _un_ stuck.”

He frowned in confusion. “Maybe I’m not dead.”

“No, you are.”

“How are you so sure?”

A look crossed her face, mild disbelief mixed with irritation. “Other than it’s my job to know,” she said pointedly. “You were next on my list.”

“Your list?”

He hadn’t noticed before, but she carried a slim brown pocketbook at her hip—its thin strap fell across her chest. She reached into it, took out a notebook and flipped it open, showing him a list of names and dates. “Steven Grant Rogers, February 3, 1945,” she said while his eyes scanned the page.

“Where?”

She rolled her eyes. “Right—” she flipped it back and stared. Her brow furrowed again, and she flipped a few pages forward and back. “You were right…” She looked up, a flicker of concern in her eyes.

Steve felt a twist of anxiety in his gut. “What’s wrong?” he asked, forcing a half-smile. “Maybe I’ve got a chance to be rescued after all.”

But she was shaking her head. “No, that’s not how this works.” She looked down at the book again. “Your name is gone,” she flipped page after page. “Sometimes the dates change, sure, but not the names. The names are always here and yours…” she looked up. “Yours is gone.”

He didn’t like the way that sounded. “That’s gotta be a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” she snapped, looking back down again. Her flipping turned frantic; pages flew at a preternatural speed between her fingers. The book looked small, no more than a typical notepad, but she must have turned thousands of pages in the time it took him to blink.

Steve’s stomach twisted tighter. “What happens if I’m not in the book?”

“You have to be.”

“But what if I’m not?”

She looked up a second time. “You’d be the first.”

“Which means…” He wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to have an answer.

“Which means I have work to do.” Her tone was clipped, business-like as she tucked her book back into her purse. She gave him a once-over. “Wait here.”

“Wait for what?”

“I’ll be back,” she said and raised a hand, letting it hover over his chest. “Until then, this will just be a dream.” She flattened her palm against his heart, and everything went dark once more.

When he opened his eyes again, there was another dark haired woman standing over him. Only this one was telling him he was in a hospital, recovering in New York City. And she was all wrong.

Everything was all wrong.


	2. 2014

He was supposed to die again in 2014. In another blaze of glory and twisted metal, another body of water—the Potomac River this time.

She was there again, sitting on the windowsill of his hospital room. Her attention wasn’t on him, though; she was looking out the window at the silver and lavender streaks across the pre-dawn sky. Beside his bed, Sam slept in an uncomfortable plastic chair. His arms crossed over his chest, his head hanging slack. Steve felt a pang of something he hadn’t expected.

“He’s your friend?” she asked, turning back from the window. She was dressed differently this time—black jeans and a long, loose sweater, battered tennis shoes. Her hair was down—dark curls around her shoulders.

Steve looked back at Sam and felt a twist of regret. “He was trying to be.”

Her eyes stayed on Sam. “Don’t have too many of those,” she asked quietly. “Do you?”

“Did you figure it out? What happened last time?” he asked, ignoring her question. It was too sharp—the kind of observation that slid right between his ribs. He glanced behind him, again there was his broken, beaten body, still hooked up to monitors and IVs, though he noticed they were silent. The whole world was silent but for the two of them. “You must have,” he guessed.

She returned her gaze to the window. A small smile played on her lips. “Fourteen babies born in this hospital today,” she said, her fingers drummed lightly against her thigh. “Their average is twelve, but Daniella Ahedo had twins.”

He blinked. “Oh. Uh—congratulations to her, I guess?” He tilted his head to one side. “How do you…know that?”

“I’m not just there when life ends,” she said. Her voice was low, quiet, like she was afraid of waking up Sam. “I’m there when it begins, too.” That smile twitched again. “You were a month premature,” she said, surprising him. “The nurse who delivered you told your mother there was no way you were going to make it, but Sarah swore you would. Said, 'You don't know my boy.'” Steve had heard that story a million times--just like that, word for word. There was a fondness in her voice when she mentioned his mother that made his heart ache. As if she had known her too, loved her as much as he had. “She said you were just as stubborn as she was.” The young woman turned and looked at him, finally, a now unreadable expression on her face. “Looks like she was right.”

Steve stared at her for a long time, trying to piece together what she was saying. “I’m not dead, am I?”

“No,” she said simply. “You’re not.”

He thought back to the helicarrier. The bullet tearing straight into his gut. The force behind Bucky’s metal fist. He’d felt his bones break. His lung give out. He’d felt the blood in the back of his throat, choking him. His vision had dimmed around the edges.

“How is that possible?”

“It really isn’t,” she assured him. “No mortal could have survived what you went through. Even with Bucky pulling you out of that river,” she shook her head. “There was so much damage.”

“But I’m not dead?” he repeated dubiously.

“Nope.”

He felt his brow furrow in confusion. “You said…” he frowned. “You said no mortal could survive what happened.” She nodded evenly. “So then what…” He suddenly remembered this twisting dread. He’d felt it for a moment the first time they’d met—the conversation he’d always told himself was just a dream. Just a fleeting, terrible thought he didn’t want to pin down for fear of what it would mean if he looked at it too closely. “What am I?”

She let out a heavy, pointed sigh and hopped down from the ledge. “You’re a real pain in my ass for the moment, Captain.” It was her turn to stop, her nose wrinkled in confusion. “Is that the right rank? Are you really still just a captain after everything you've done?”

Disarmed, he blinked. “Uh, no. I’m…well,” he frowned. “Technically speaking, I’m a Commander—S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t have the same ranking level as the Army so—”

The young woman’s face twisted even further. “Oh, no I don’t like that. I’ll just stick with Captain.”

“Most people do.”

She nodded slowly, accepting this before she coughed and lightly clapped her hands together. “Well, anyway, _Captain_. Since you’re not dead, I don’t really know what I’m doing here other than watching the sunrise so—”

“Wait,” he reached out a hand to stop her. When his fingers touched her shoulder, she was solid—her body as real as his own. “You have to know what’s going on with me,” he said firmly. “Isn’t this your job?”

She had very full lips, he noticed, not for the first time. If she were anyone else, he might even say they were invitingly full. She pursed them in thought for a long moment before she spoke. “It is my job,” she said. “But I don’t know what to tell you. Other than you were supposed to die in 1945 and you didn’t.”

“But wasn’t I supposed to die today, too? Isn’t that what you said?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I said it isn’t possible that you survived what you did.”

“Only I did survive.”

“You did.”

“But you don’t know how,” he stated. “Or why.”

“Uh, the how,” she scratched a thumbnail with chipped black nail polish across her eyebrow and avoided his eyes. “I have some ideas, but I don’t know anything for sure. The why,” she looked back up and shrugged. “I think that’s probably up to you.” She looked down to her wrist at a watch with a large round face, numbers but no hands. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Am I ever going to see you again? Or is this just going to be another dream I’ll barely remember when I wake up?” The questions fell off his tongue before he could stop and think about why he was asking them.

She’d taken a few steps away from him and turned back, looking pensive. “I don’t know,” she said, sounding genuine. “Normally, I’d say yes, of course you’re going to see me again. You’re very much alive which means that someday, you’ll be very much dead, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Normally,” he repeated, lifting his eyebrows.

She held out her arms in a wide shrug. “That’s the best I got.”

He studied her for a second, an unexpected half-smile tugging at his lips. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“No,” she repeated. “I really don’t.”

“And that…” his smile widened a fraction of an inch. “That bothers you. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “It really, really does.”

She turned away again, leaving Steve hoping he’d remember her this time when he woke up. He cleared his throat. “Do you have a name?”

She didn’t turn back this time, but he watched her pause in the doorway of the hospital room. He could have sworn he heard the smile in her voice when she answered, “I’ve got a million.”

He didn’t remember closing his eyes again, but when he opened them, there was music in his room. Warm daylight. Overwhelming pain in nearly every part of his body.

And Sam, asleep in the chair beside him.


	3. 2016

He was aware of her presence before she sat down next to him. Wakanda was full of breathtaking beauty—buildings and people that sparkled with brilliance and life, long stretches of unbroken grassland, deep jungles, rounded, sheltering mountains, and sharp cliffs.

Like this one, where she found him sitting. The rocks giving way and crumbling just a bit every time he bounced his heel against it. “If you’re here for Bucky,” he said when she appeared behind him. “You can’t have him.”

He’d seen her since the hospital in DC. Or at least, he thought he had. Glimpses in a crowd or on the news. In Sokovia amidst the madness and the robots. In Nigeria in all the panic after the explosion. Each time, he told himself it hadn’t been her. Each time, he told himself he wasn’t disappointed.

But he didn’t want to see her now. Not if she’d come for Bucky while he slept in cryo, waiting for Shuri’s genius mind to find a way to bring back the Bucky he’d known and been looking for.

“I don’t want him,” she said, a small smile in her voice as she sat down beside him. She’d gathered her long, colorful skirt in one hand to keep it tight around her legs. “Not yet, anyway. Not for a long time.”

He kept his eyes on the valley below. The golden light bouncing off the rocks so that they almost glittered. The day was collapsing into night around them, but in the last gasps of fading sunlight, heat still shimmered along the horizon beyond. “You here for me?”

She was quiet and swished her feet back and forth. “I always forget how beautiful this place is,” she said after what felt like a long time. “I don’t know that there’s anywhere else like it,” she added thoughtfully before she smiled again. “Although, I just remembered this waterfall in Mesopotamia—that came pretty close. The water was so clear it looked like diamonds when it hit the bottom…” she let out a little hum. “I wonder if that’s still there.”

Steve didn’t look at her. “Mesopotamia isn’t still there,” he reminded.

She sighed regretfully. “Nothin’ lasts.”

“Except you.” _And me_ , he wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to form the words.

“Well,” she shrugged. “No, not me. I’ve got an expiration date just like everyone else.”

That was intriguing, he thought idly. But not enough for him to ask for any further details. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said with a heavy exhale.

They fell silent again. Little fragments of cliff cracking beneath his heels. Birds calling to one another and soaring overhead. The breeze rushing through papery leaves and blades of grass.

“It’s the serum,” he said finally. “Isn’t it?” He looked at her. “That’s why you couldn’t take me with you. That’s why I—” he stopped at the look on her face. Her sad blue eyes, her thoughtful pout.

“The reason everything has an expiration date is because everything wears out eventually,” she said, appearing to choose her words with great care. “If it lives, it degenerates, and it dies—that’s the way it works. But whatever that serum is, it…” her pout deepened into a frown. “It was supposed to protect and restore your cells. And it’s doing that,” she added. “It’s just…doing it too well.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, even though he already knew. “I’m not going to age? I’m not going to die?”

“You might,” she said. “But you haven’t…so far.”

He let out a choked laugh. “So far,” he repeated. “And what—what if I just jump from here?” he asked, pointing to the steep drop below them. “What happens if I throw myself off this cliff?”

“I suspect it will hurt,” she said without a hint of irony.

Steve felt a stinging behind his nose and his eyes. “Everything hurts.”

Bucky.

Tony.

Peggy.

His home. His family.

His life. His shield.

He’d lived and lost so much already in the time he’d been alive. He already carried the weight of all those losses with him wherever he went; those ghosts that kept him up at night, all the things that had slipped through his fingers. How much more was he going to have to lose, to endure, to _hurt_ before he could be done? Before he could rest?

The thought that this could go on forever—that he might _never_ be free from the hurt and the pain and the grim monotony of survival…Steve felt his heart start to race. His throat ran dry. He wanted to panic, to scream, to hit something. He blinked rapidly and shook his head, pushing at his closed eyes for a moment. “You should go.”

“No.”

“I don’t want to be around you,” he said firmly. “You should leave me alone.”

“I’m not going to leave you alone,” she argued back. “You’ve been alone too long already.”

“And you just told me that I might have eternity to spend the same fucking way,” he snapped, getting up and getting to his feet. “Might as well get a head start.” He started walking in the opposite direction.

She was faster than he expected, keeping up with his quick steps. “Steve, stop,” she insisted. “I can help you, I can—”

“You can what?” he stopped and turned back to face her. “You can tell me what I’m supposed to do if I can’t fix this? You have some kind of advice about watching everyone I love get old and die around me? While everything I’ve ever wanted or tried to hold onto get stripped away and burned to the ground? While no matter what I do—everything just keeps _hurting_ —and it’s just going to keep hurting like this forever?”

Her mouth opened and closed once before her throat bobbed with a swallow. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I’m. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t—” she stopped and shook her head. “This is a mistake,” she said firmly. “It’s a glitch. It was never supposed to happen.” Tentatively, she reached out and took his hand. His first instinct was to pull away, but her touch comforted him more than he wanted to admit.

He thought she’d be cold.

She wasn’t.

“Let me help you,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his. “Please. Let me do something for you—anything.” When he didn’t say anything—because what could he say? What could he ask for that she could give him?—she studied his face with a harder, more inquisitive eye. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” he said automatically. He had—a few hours, at least, sitting up in a chair outside of Shuri’s lab while she went through all of Bucky’s records. Thirty minutes to an hour at a time, sure, but it had still been sleep.

“Really slept,” she countered. “When’s the last time you slept through the night?”

He looked down again. She hadn’t taken her hand back. “I don’t know,” he admitted and swallowed hard. “It’s…been awhile.”

Years, he could have said. It had been years since he’d slept through a whole night undisturbed by nightmares and memories of flashes of gunshots, explosions, blood and breaking bones.

She nodded like she already knew that and when he blinked again, they were standing in a bedroom. His bedroom, Steve realized. The room where T’Challa had told him he could stay for a few days while they figured out how they were going to treat Bucky and where he’d be safest from the people looking for him. There was a small bag of his clothes on an armchair. A king-sized bed that hadn’t been slept in.

“Wait here,” she said and disappeared before he had a chance to ask what they were doing. He waited a minute before he started to pull back the sheets and blankets and then stopped. What was he supposed to wait for? Her to come back and tuck him in? Steve scoffed and changed his clothes, trying not to give her another thought while he pulled on a pair of soft pajama pants he found in the top drawer of the dresser.

When he turned around, he had to fight the urge to scream. A man taller than himself stood at the foot of his bed. He was shockingly pale with dark, glittering eyes and a mop of black hair. He wore all black, including a ridiculous cloak that looked to be made of swirling black ink.

“Hello Steven Rogers,” the man said. His voice was low, and commanding and Steve knew right away that whoever this man was, he wasn’t used to not having his orders followed. “My sister asked me to pay you a visit.”

He blinked. “Your sister?”

“Death,” he said, sounding almost casual as his black eyes gave Steve a once-over. “She asked for my help.”

“Your sister is Death,” he repeated slowly.

“She told me you already knew who she was,” the man replied. “She told me you weren’t easily frightened.”

“I’m…not,” Steve said.

“I’m Morpheus,” the man said after a beat. “God of Dreams,” he added, when Steve found he had no immediate response.

“Yeah,” he nodded numbly. “I…remember the myths.”

There was a hint of a smile at the corner of Morpheus’ lips. “You may not frighten easily,” he said, studying Steve again. “But you don’t convince easily either, do you?”

He shook his head. “I guess not. Your sister—”

“Death,” he reminded.

Steve felt his stomach twist. “Right. Death. Is she…”

“Coming back?” The smile dropped away and was replaced by a curious tilt of Morpheus’ head. “No, she said you wanted to be left alone.”

He _had_ wanted to be left alone, he remembered. He’d asked for it specifically. So why did hearing that she’d listened to him feel so much like disappointment?

“Wait,” he frowned. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to collect your nightmares, Steven Rogers.”

“Steve is fine.”

“Very well. I’ve come to collect your nightmares, Steve,” Morpheus corrected himself without hesitation.

“Collect my—”

“Your nightmares,” he finished his sentence for him again. “You carry too many—they no longer serve you the way they should.”

“How are they supposed to serve me?” he asked, still not quite believing this was really happening.

“Humans need their guilt. They need their pain and their loss to visit them from time to time. To be revisited by them as nightmares helps ensure balance, helps them to not repeat their mistakes. But you have too much...far too many and the wrong sort. There’s no longer any lesson—it’s only punishment for things over which you had no control.”

“And you’re just going to take them away?” he asked skeptically.

“I already have,” Morpheus answered smoothly. “What would you like to dream of instead?”

The question took him off guard. More than a little personal to share with a total stranger, god of dreams or not. “Uh…I don’t—” he felt his frown deepen. “Isn’t that kind of your area?”

The hint of a smile returned to Morpheus’ lips. “Indeed,” he said evenly. “Very well. When you wake, it will be from a deep and restful sleep. I bid you farewell.”

Before he could echo anything back, he was flat on his back, in his bed, sound asleep.

Dreaming of her.


	4. 2017

Darcy Lewis was supposed to die on May 2, 2011 in a car accident in the desert of Puente Antiguo, New Mexico. That was the day Death had chosen for her time spent as a mortal. Darcy was supposed to die when her van rolled unexpectedly, killing her but leaving her two companions alive.

Only by the time 11:19pm rolled around, Death had spent the whole day as Darcy. She’d seen how much Jane and Erik needed her. How much good she could do if she were to stay alive and keep working. She’d become dangerously fond of her, almost addicted to her quirks and shortcomings. So instead of departing the mortal plane as planned at 11:21pm, Death had made a different choice. The van kept going, straight into the storm Jane Foster was chasing, and struck a god as he fell to earth instead.

And Darcy stayed alive.

Death liked being Darcy. She liked how human she was—how human she felt when she let herself be Darcy. Darcy had friends and favorite snacks and thick, cozy sweaters to tuck cold hands inside. And Darcy could help where Death couldn’t. Darcy could fix things that were broken and take care of people in little, insignificant ways.

And no one was afraid of Darcy.

No one except Thor. But Thor was only afraid because he knew who she really was. Had been able to see through her carefully constructed facade from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d nearly started to give her away before she tased him with the gun Darcy carried in her pocket. 

So, she was still Death, but she was Darcy, too. And in the years that she’d been both, Death found that the most human parts of Darcy—her compassion, her humor—wouldn’t be left behind when she went back to work. They came with her, mingling in a strange dance that made her job both easier and more difficult. She found herself spending more time with the dead than she had before. Trying harder to ease their fears than she might have tried previously.

In Romania, Death clasped the hand of a twelve-year-old girl and pulled her gently from the grisly scene of her murder. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said quietly, putting an arm around her shoulder. She put her hand on the girl’s cheek and kept her from looking back. “You don’t need to see that,” she assured her. “Just look at me, okay?”

The girl looked up, silver blue eyes wide and trusting, and nodded. “I think I should have had longer,” she said simply.

Death nodded sadly. “I think so too.”

She caught a glimpse of him before they departed, and she felt an unfamiliar tug in her chest. It had been only two human years since Wakanda, but it felt like longer. The man who’d killed the little girl was dead by the time she returned, and she carried him safely away, just as she had his victim.

Steve was scrubbing the blood from his hands when she found him again. In the small upstairs bathroom of the safehouse where he and his team had been laying low, trying to stop another gifted child from being abducted and experimented on by a new cell of Hydra cropping up in Eastern Europe.

“She knows you tried to save her,” she said quietly, when Steve caught her eye in the mirror.

“Yeah,” he huffed out the word gruffly. “Well. Didn’t try hard enough, apparently.”

She pursed her lips. “There was nothing you could do, Steve,” she offered, though she knew it was cold comfort. “And at the very least, he won’t do it again.”

They were quiet for a long time. He scrubbed harshly at the blood stuck beneath his nails before he spoke again. “What are you doing here?” he asked, not looking up.

She shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood,” she said honestly. “Thought I’d say hi.”

This time, he did look up while he rinsed his hands. A smile he would not allow tugged once at the corner of his lips. “So this is a social call?”

“I guess,” she shrugged again. “It’s probably not the worst idea to check in on my special case every now and then.” She looked around the cramped bathroom and took a seat on the edge of the tub. “You look tired, Steve.”

He bent and pushed a handful of water over his face, rubbing at his eyes before he reached for a thin towel and patted dry. “Thanks.”

“I mean, you look good,” she added before she stopped and let herself wonder if she should have said that out loud. “The whole…” she motioned to his long hair, his beard and civilian clothes, “nomad look,” she went on, deciding that stopping without explanation would be worse. “It’s…” she cleared her throat and swiftly wished she’d said nothing at all. “It’s a good look.”

Steve didn’t turn around, but he glanced at her in the mirror again and seemed to take extra care in drying his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, before the silence between them could get too awkward. “About you and Tony,” she continued when he looked up again. “That he hasn’t—that you two are still…” she glanced down. “Y’know.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed shortly before he tossed the towel in the sink and turned to face her. “Really. What are you doing here?”

“I told you,” she said, getting up. “I was around.” She glanced backward, in the direction of the bunker where they’d both been earlier. “I had to work.”

“The girl?” he asked, though they both already knew he knew. 

She nodded. “And the Nazi, too.” 

“Where’d you send him?”

“On,” she said simply. “Same as everybody else. I’m sure you’d rather I told you that I banished him to the underworld for eternal torment or something but,” she shook her head. “That’s not my department.”

He leaned against the lip of the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?” she asked, her head tilting slightly to one side. “I’m just Death. I’m not judgement or punishment—those are human concepts. All I do is make sure everyone gets where they’re going.” She waited for him to say something else, to challenge her again, or maybe to tell her to leave him alone. “It’s not a bad way to spend eternity,” she said when he stayed quiet. “I could show you what I mean…if you want to come with me.”

Steve blinked and looked surprised. “Come with you?”

“Just for a minute,” she assured him. “No one will even know you’re gone.”

Hospice wings all smelled exactly the same. Like sickness and urine and cleaning products and not at _all_ like death, thank you very much. She dropped Steve’s hand when she found the right room, trusting him to follow her inside.

“You one of the nurses, honey?” Wallace Turner asked. His voice was a rasping croak from the far side of the room. His dark eyes squinted in the dim light. Outside, in Shreveport, Louisiana, dusk had fallen, casting long shadows across the room.

“Not exactly,” Death said, pulling up a chair to sit down beside him. Instinctively, he reached out his hand, blindly trusting her to take it, to offer him some comfort. His hands were rough, cracked and calloused. He’d been a farmer most of his life—except for his years in the Army. Vietnam and Cambodia. His hands had held rifles and explosives, had tilled acres of hard ground into fertile soil, coaxed fruit and vegetables and trees from the earth, and had cradled babies with soft brown skin and scratchy black hair. 

His grip tightened around her hand and he turned to look at her. His vision had been dimming the longer he lay here, details fading more and more each day. But he could see her clearly and she felt the fear that curled around his heart as the realization took hold. “What if it hurts?” he asked. “What if it’s cold and I’m all alone?”

She shook her head and smiled, reaching out her other hand to swipe her thumb across his forehead. His mother used to do that when he was a child, plagued by nightmares about nuclear war and the end of the world. “You’re not,” she promised. “And it’s not cold, is it?”

“No,” he said faintly. “It’s…it’s nice…warm.” His eyes had closed again, his features relaxed from their pinched panic. “Do you smell that?”

“Blueberry pie, right?” she asked. Steve had stepped up to the foot of the bed, she felt him studying them, but didn’t look up. “Yeah, I can smell it. And I can hear Bobby in your old radio while you’re fixing that damn tractor again.” She let him hear the smile in her voice. “What song was it, Wallace? The one you and Frannie danced to?”

“ _Somewhere_ …” he answered with the first note, “ _beyond the sea…somewhere…waiting for me_ …”

“ _My lover stands on golden sands_ ,” she sang along with him softly, keeping her voice just above a whisper, “ _and watches the ships that go sailing_ …” She stood and gave his hand a gentle tug, pulling him along with her, and then Wallace Turner was gone.

“You do that for everyone?” Steve asked, while she brushed at an invisible speck of dust on her clothes.

“If they need it,” she shrugged.

“You didn’t do that for me,” he reminded.

“Well you haven’t died yet,” she countered, biting back a smile. “Maybe I will.”

To her relief, he smiled back. Just a brief half-smile, the kind she’d come to expect from him. “Who’s next?”

Soo-jin Park, in Seoul was next. Death helped her stand and brushed her off after a delivery truck collided with her bicycle. Soo-jin was funny, loud, and opinionated. All she said when she looked at the wreckage was a simple, “Ah shit.” Then she looked at Death and raised her eyebrows. “Onto the next, I guess?”

Death smiled back. “That’s exactly right.”

Then Steve followed her to San Diego, where a fifteen-year-old boy died waiting for a lung transplant. “My mom’s not going to be okay,” he said, looking down at his body in his hospital bed where his mother had fallen asleep, still holding his hand, not yet woken by the sound of his monitors and the crush of nurses who would attempt to revive him. “Is she?”

She put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him to her side, kissing the side of his head. “It’s going to take her a long time,” she admitted. “But eventually, she will be.” She thought it interesting that he didn’t ask about his father, who was not in the room, but who Death would be visiting in only ten months when grief and guilt for missing so much of his son’s life would eat away at him and he took his own life.

A drone strike in Syria killed six people and Steve watched as Death took them each individually and all at the same time. Another old man in Surrey. A construction accident in New South Wales. And finally, “Ruby Price,” she said. “Stillwater, Minnesota.” 

“Ruby Price?” Steve repeated as they walked along a hallway lined with photos and a small table full of knick-knacks. “I used to know a Ruby Price,” he said thoughtfully. “She was on…”

“Tour with you,” Death pointed to the photo Steve had stopped in front of. A black and white capture of a row of women, costumed and dolled up in stars and stripes, assembled in a kick-line. “In ’43,” she smiled. “I know.”

The Ruby Price that Steve had known in 1943 had been a short-tempered redhead with bright green eyes, legs for days, and absolutely no patience at all. This Ruby was ninety-seven years old. She’d gone back to her maiden name after two divorces, had raised five healthy children and loved nineteen grandchildren and three great-grandchildren with her whole heart. Her hair was white and cropped in a cap of curls close to her head. Her eyes were still green but lined with years of laughter and too much time in the sunshine. She wore a light nightgown and a housecoat and sat by her bedroom window.

And to Steve’s shock, she didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Oh, it is you,” she said with a little smile that dimpled her wrinkled cheek. “She told me she’d bring you to see me.”

He blinked and looked back to see Death shrug good-naturedly. “She beat me in a game of rummy last week,” she admitted. “I told her I’d give her a few more days and see if I could get you to come and see her.”

Steve frowned and approached her chair. She reached a wizened hand, beckoning him closer until he dropped to a knee to be at eye-level with her. “Why did you want to see me again, Ruby?”

“You’ll think it’s silly,” Ruby said quietly, holding one of Steve’s hands in both of hers. “And I suppose it is,” she agreed. “But I wanted to apologize—for yelling at you, that day at rehearsal.”

He squinted in thought before he started to smile. “I nearly broke your leg when I dropped that motorcycle,” he reminded. “You had every right to yell at me.”

But Ruby shook her head. “No, but I said such horrible things to you,” she scolded herself. “I had such a temper—I was just awful and then—” she paused again, and her features crowded closer together. “Well, then you died, and…and I always thought I should have apologized, because it was a simple mistake and you were trying so hard to make us all look good.” She smiled faintly. Her eyes were glassy when she looked up. “Funny the things you regret, isn’t it?”

She saw Steve’s throat bob with a hard swallow as he offered a smile back. “Well, I forgive you Ruby,” he said and turned his hand to he could press a kiss to the top of hers. “And I’m glad I got to see you again.”

Ruby reached up and touched his cheek. “Oh, me too.”

The safehouse was quiet when they returned. Steve had been the last one up before she’d arrived and by the watch he’d slipped off and set on the bathroom counter, they’d been gone less than a minute. “Thank you,” he said abruptly. “For letting me…” he stopped and looked down. “For taking me to see Ruby.”

“You’re very welcome,” she replied. “But it’s late; I should let you get some sleep.”

He looked up again. “Do you sleep?”

She shook her head. “No need. Are you—” her lips pursed in thought. “Are you sleeping okay? I can ask Morpheus to—”

“No,” it was his turn to shake his head. “No, I’ve been okay. Not perfect,” he added. “But better. Thank you.”

She nodded and felt a flutter of nervous energy pass over her. “Then, uh, sleep well.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Goodnight.”

She went back to work, leaving him to his nightly rituals and his own, lumpy bedroll against the opposite wall from where Sam had dropped off to sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. But that flutter—that nervous, anticipatory flutter—kept her thinking about him as she went about her business. She blamed it on the part of her that was still Darcy—that lingering, sticky humanity—for how she felt pulled back to him. For this need to see him again, to lean a little more into whatever kept her wanting to come back. He was sleeping when she returned, promising herself it was just for a moment.

Moonlight fell through the window in thick bars. One fell across Steve’s face as he rolled from his side onto his back. She smiled softly, happy to see his face was peaceful, his dreams no longer tormenting him when he closed his eyes. His eyelashes were long and brushed the tops of his cheeks in a thick, dark fan. Even with the beard, she could see how full his lips were. Pink and plush and pouting ever so slightly in his sleep.

Before she could stop herself or question what she was doing, she pressed two fingers to her own lips and then reached them forward, delivering a soft touch, a ghost of a kiss, to Steve’s. “Good night,” she whispered.

“Well isn’t this an unexpected delight?”

At the unmistakable sound of her sibling’s rich, silky voice, Death closed her eyes and steadied herself before she turned around. “What are you doing here, Desire?” she asked, not bothering to keep her voice down. Steve and Sam would be none the wiser that anyone else was there.

Desire raised their arms over their head in a long stretch and dropped into a shrug. “You tell me, big sister,” they said, a glow in their eyes. “I thought we’d all be dust before you finally had need of me.”

“You got your lines crossed,” she said firmly, walking past them out into the hallway. “I don’t need you.”

“I don’t blame you,” Desire went on as if she hadn’t spoken. They followed her down the stairs and out into the street. “He’s difficult to resist…all those muscles and all that tasty anguish and damage…” They shook their head, a glossy lock of black hair dislodged from behind their ear and they tucked it back again. “Mm-mm-mm.”

“He’s just a friend,” Death assured them once they’d reached the sidewalk.

“Oh, he’s more than that,” Desire countered without missing a beat. “Isn’t he…” Their head tilted, angular features twisted in concentration for a moment before they lit up again. “Yes—this is the one who can’t die, correct? The special case?”

“Can you not?”

“What was your curse again?” Desire pretended to think. “It’s that you can’t love any mortal because then they’re doomed to die…right?”

She stared at them. “It’s not a curse,” she corrected evenly. “It’s a rule. And it’s open to interpretation.”

“Mmm,” Desire raised their eyebrows, intrigued. “How open, exactly?”

“If the defining characteristic of mortals is their mortality,” she said, because she’d thought this through many, many times in all her millennia, “then wouldn’t it stand to reason that I could fall in love with any of them? The only thing guaranteed as long as I exist is that they’re all doomed to die.” She lifted her eyebrows in response to Desire’s. “So, it seems I could have my pick.”

This was met with a silky smirk. “But we’re not talking about mortals anymore, are we?” They approached her slowly, moving as they always did, like a cat lazily stalking its prey, circling her as if trying to read her mind. “Are you worried about what will happen if you let yourself want this one?”

“No,” she lied. “Of course not.”

“Because you only _think_ he’s immortal, am I right?” Desire went on. “But you don’t know for certain?” Their perfect red lips pulled into a grimace. “Wouldn’t that be unfortunate—if you thought this one was safe…and he _was_ ,” they said dramatically. “Until _you_ came along?” They let out a low whistle. “Can’t imagine how long it would take to get over something like that.”

Death sighed and dropped her head backward. “Please go away,” she requested. “Leave me alone, leave him alone, leave this whole thing alone.”

They held up their hands in surrender and backed away, chuckling. “So uptight, big sister. So very, very uptight.” They began to retreat down the street, tucking hands into the pockets of their skinny tuxedo pants. “You let me know when you’re done lying to yourself,” they called before they looked over their shoulder and offered a wink. “I just wanna help.”

But even if that were true, Death knew better than to trust their good intentions.

Of all her siblings, Desire was the cruelest.


	5. 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is pretty angsty. But you have the creators of IW to thank for that soooo...
> 
> In the meantime, let me tell you that I love you. Okay? Because I do. I love you.

She felt it the moment it happened. A sharp blow to her chest, a chasm too deep and too vast to stop. Ripping her apart from the inside. It was with Darcy’s voice that she cried out and doubled over in the lab in Norway, waking Jane from where she’d drifted off behind her laptop.

“Darcy?” Jane asked, blinking herself awake as she stood. The plaid blanket slipped from her lap and hit the floor. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

But she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t articulate what had just happened. What had gone so horribly wrong. The weight and the depth of loss overwhelmed her. Drowning her on the spot the moment before their lab tech Anders crumbled to the ground.

A pile of ash where he’d stood.

It was too much. It wasn’t the weight of half a universe dissolving in an instant that nearly broke her first. It was everything that died around them. The passengers of planes that plummeted to the earth when their pilots and co-pilots vanished. The people walking on the sidewalk when a driverless car jumped the curb suddenly and plowed into them. The patients on operating tables, dying during routine surgery when the nurse responsible for clamping the correct artery was suddenly a pile of dust along with three others in the room. The babies whose parents were snapped away, leaving them crying and starving.

And that was just on Earth.

On every planet, in every corner of the galaxy, there was wailing. Screaming. Grief clawing out of mouths with raw, animalistic howling.

Death could hear them all. Feel them all. The pain. The panic. The helplessness. The brutality. The senselessness. She’d never had to stretch herself like this before. Never had this many waiting for her. Unending souls piling up. Too many to count. Too many to name.

Too many.

It tore at her mind. Pulled the strings of her sanity as she tried to make sense of what Thanos had done. _Why_ he’d done it. How could it possibly be undone.

As Darcy, she went with Jane to the compound in New York with the survivors. Thor asked them to come but said nothing when they arrived. Save for a brief hug he shared with Jane and a strong clap of a hand to Darcy’s shoulder, he was all but catatonic. Sitting and watching the names and numbers of the missing pile up.

She was there for three nights before Steve found her in the kitchen. It was nearly three in the morning and she was stirring honey into tea she probably wasn’t going to drink.

“Are you really here?” he asked, startling her. Her spoon clattered loudly to the counter.

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” he looked so much older since she’d last seen him. Worry and stress laid in deep lines on his forehead. He wasn’t sleeping again. She didn’t blame him. “Are you really here? Or am I just…”

“I’m here,” she shrugged. “I’m real. You can call me Darcy, if that’s easier.”

“Darcy,” he tried it out slowly, like a flavor he’d never tasted. “That’s who Jane thinks you are?”

She shook her head. “That’s who I _am_.”

“What about—”

“It’s complicated,” she cut him off. “I’m still Death. But I’m Darcy, too. Right now I’m here, making tea and talking to you. But I’m also on Berhart to collect a man who slipped off a cliff and broke his neck while he was looking for his family. And I’m on Xarta with a little boy who starved to death because half the vegetation on his planet vanished overnight. And I’m—”

“Stop,” Steve said firmly before he softened. “Please.” He paused. “Darcy,” his voice was lower and his eyes closed as he shook his head. “Just…can you just. If you’re—whoever she is,” he looked up. “Whoever Darcy is. Can you just be her? For a minute? I can’t…”

_I can’t listen to this._

_I can’t think about how many trillions more keep dying._

_I can’t understand how you can be here and everywhere else._

She heard the thoughts swirling in his head before she forced herself to stop listening and nodded. “Sure,” she said numbly. “I can be her.”

They stood in silence for what felt like a long time. She tried her tea. It was too hot. Too bland. It was just hot water that burned her tongue and tasted like nothing. She was about to pour it down the drain, make a crack about how a few billion years apparently isn’t long enough to learn the subtle art of tea-making, when Steve spoke again. “We’re going to fix this.”

“Okay,” she heard herself say.

He looked up from where he’d been focused on her feet. In the back of her mind, she remembered she was wearing black slippers trimmed and lined with bright pink faux fur and wondered if she should feel self-conscious about them. “You don’t believe me?”

She shook her head. “I believe that you’re going to try.”

He offered her a joyless smirk. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“My confidence in you isn’t going to change the circumstances,” she said matter-of-factly.

“And what are the circumstances?” he asked, an uptick of tension in his tone. “Do you have some kind of insider-knowledge about what the fuck just happened?”

“You know what happened,” she reminded him, unfazed for the moment by the spike in his temper. “Why would I have anything more than you have?”

“Why—” he repeated softly before he shook his head. “I don’t know. Just figured with how many trillion dead in a second it’d be like business is booming for you.”

Her stomach and her face twisted with the implication and any patience she felt like extending him evaporated. “Well, I don’t work on commission, so fuck you,” she spat before she dropped her mug in the sink and went to walk past him. He grabbed her arm. Firmly, just above the elbow. “Let go of me,” she commanded.

“Let me apologize first.”

She wrenched her arm away the moment he relaxed his grip. “I don’t need you trying to hurt my feelings because you’re tired of dealing with power you don’t understand.”

“I…realize that,” he said, looking down at the ground between them. “It was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry. I’m sure this hasn’t been easy for you, either. That many dead…”

She stared at him for a long moment before she narrowed her eyes. “They aren’t dead, Steve.”

He looked up and the spark of hope she saw nearly broke her heart. “What do you mean?”

“The trillions that turned to dust when Thanos…” she motioned to the west wing of the compound where the remaining scientists had been struggling to identify the signature of the energy Thanos had channeled when he’d snapped his fingers. “They aren’t dead. They’re just…gone.”

“Gone,” Steve echoed. “You mean—”

“I mean I don’t know where that gauntlet sent them but it’s somewhere that I can’t go,” she admitted, feeling no relief in finally giving voice to the gaping wound in her own heart. “All these people? They’re not souls I can send on. They aren’t even ghosts stuck in limbo. They’re just _gone_ ,” she repeated. “Like shadows. Like…like empty rooms with doors I can’t close. Trillions and trillions of deaths that should have been natural and dozens of years from now that _can’t_. Trillions of lives that _should_ have kept going. Babies that should have been born that won’t be now. It’s all unfinished and unbalanced and it’s like this…” her voice broke and she clawed at her chest for her ankh. “Hole. Inside me. So deep it feels like it must go all the way down—like there’s no end to it. And I don’t know how I can bear it. I don’t know how any of us can bear it,” she heard herself add in a small, scared whisper before she looked up. “How could something like this ever be bearable?”

The lines on Steve’s face deepened with his frown. “I don’t know,” he said before he shook his head. “All the more reason to fix it.”

He hadn’t stepped back from her yet. He’d trapped them both between the counter and the doorway and she looked up at him. “And if you can’t?” she asked. “What then?”

Something had shifted in the air between them. The crackle of anger from earlier had faded quickly and left something else in its place. Something equally warm but not nearly as explosive. She watched his throat move as he swallowed and opened his mouth—

“Steve,” Natasha appeared in the door. She glanced between the two of them for one beat before she coughed. “We got a lock on Fury’s pager.”

“Be right there,” he said without looking at her. His eyes stayed on Darcy’s until Natasha had left and he cleared his throat lightly. “I—um—”

“Yeah,” she nodded once and went to move past him. He let her go this time, but she’d only made it a few steps out of the kitchen, heading toward the backyard, before he called her name. “What?” she asked; she stopped but didn’t turn back.

“Are you…” he hesitated. “Are you staying? Here, I mean?”

She brought a hand up and ran it over her face. “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Seems as good a place as any to be of use.” She summoned her courage and looked over her shoulder. “Why?”

 _Tell me you want me to stay._ The thought surprised her with its directness. With the want lingering beneath it. She wasn’t accustomed to wanting anything—and certainly not wanting anything that relied on the whims of mortals.

Although, she reasoned with herself in the time it took Steve to come up with an answer. He wasn’t one of those anymore, was he?

In the doorway of the kitchen, backlit and shadowed, he shrugged. “Just…wondering. I guess.”

She nodded again. “We should both get back to work.”

“Right.”

And then he went one way and she went the other. Outside to stare at the thick cover of starlight and try to remember how to breathe.

It only got worse.

As the days passed, the workload didn’t decrease, and the despair only grew thicker. It was practically viscous in the way it clung to her while she attempted to do her job like she’d done before. With compassion and patience and understanding for the dead, without letting her own feelings get in the way of what she was doing. The dead didn’t need to know she was still reeling, still mired in her own loss, still wondering what would have to happen to heal the hole inside her. They didn’t need to know that all that missing life—all that missing death—was like walking around with a permanent, almost debilitating case of vertigo.

It was making her feel crazy.

Her siblings had no answers. Even Delirium—with her nonsensical logic and uncanny ability to perceive and understand truth and meaning in a way her siblings could not—had nothing to offer.

It was senseless loss. Decimation and emptiness and there was no one who could set it right.

No one except Thanos, perhaps. And once Steve, Natasha, Carol and the others had all determined this, there was a breath of hope shared among them. They had a plan and a location and a way to get there. They had a goal—find Thanos and get him to undo what he’d done.

But then Thor murdered Thanos and all the hope of anything ever returning to normal died along with him. Carol told her and Jane what had happened when they returned from the Garden as an unearthly silence settled over the compound. People stayed in their rooms. No one spoke much. The food barely dwindled.

Steve had been back for two days before he wandered outside and found her on the patio. She’d lit a fire in one of the three firepits and sat in a comfortable wicker chair with her feet on the ledge, warming her toes. “I should plant a garden,” she said after she’d waited a moment for him to speak first. He was standing just far enough away that she couldn’t see him from the corner of her eye but felt his presence just the same.

He took a few steps toward the fire. “A garden?” he repeated.

She looked over when his hand dropped onto the back of the chair beside her. “There’s not going to be enough food for everyone,” she said simply. “People are going to starve. Maybe not here,” she glanced back at the high-tech facility. “And maybe not right away. But eventually.” She shrugged. “Depending on how many people decide to stay here, I think we could grow enough.”

He stared at her. “That’s it? You’re just going to give up and start gardening?”

She stared back. “I’m not _retiring,_ Steve. I’m still me—I’m still working. But the reason I stay as Darcy is so I can take care of people. So yeah,” she said evenly. “I’m going to start gardening and grow enough food that we don’t have to rely so much on the markets in town and leave that as a resource for people who _can’t_ make things grow.” When he didn’t have anything to say to that, she continued. “And what else is there to do? Without the Stones…without Thanos…there’s nothing left. There’s no way to fix this.”

“I’m going to keep trying,” he said resolutely.

“I know.”

“You don’t think I’ll succeed,” his eyebrows lifted. It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think it might be a success if you manage to find a way to make all this even slightly bearable.” She stood up and stretched her arms. “I think that might be all there is left. Finding a way to live with what’s happened. Finding something that isn’t awful in all this mess and—” she stopped and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted before she reached out and placed her hand over his, curling her fingers around his palm. “I think if anyone _could_ fix even some small part of this?” she ducked her head and met his eyes. “It’s you.”

It happened before she was aware. In one moment, she and Steve were standing near each other, her hand curled over his. In the next, he’d turned his wrist and laced their fingers together and pulled her to stand right in front of him. And then his other hand had fallen to her cheek and his lips had met hers and everything that had felt like it was screaming and raw and ragged inside of her went calm and quiet.

She stretched onto her tiptoes and kissed him back, her free hand coming up to stroke the soft skin of his cleanshaven cheek. He was warm and smelled like soap and she let herself be entirely Darcy while his lips were on hers. Nothing could be more human than this. Pressed against someone safe and warm, her heart racing and her mind finally calm and feeling like there was no where else in the world she needed to be more than right here, in this moment, with him.

“Darcy?”

Jane’s voice echoed from inside the house and Steve let her go instinctively. She pulled away and sank back down to her feet as she heard Jane’s footsteps getting closer to the backdoor. “I guess I have to go,” she said after a moment of almost-awkward silence passed between them. “I’ll…um.”

Steve offered her a soft, shy smile and nodded. “Okay.”

In the morning, Steve was in the garage with Rhodes, looking for tools while Rocket acquired a pile of wooden boards. When she asked what they were making, Rocket shook his head and shrugged. “Raised beds?” he said, like it was a concept he’d never heard before. “The Captain said somebody’s plantin’ a vegetable garden.”


	6. 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a time jump--but don't worry. I know the number 2020 all make us a little twitchy, but this will be taking place in the MCU where 2020 was just a normal year after half the population was turned to dust. Not nearly as bad as what we've got going on here in the real world.

Theoretically, today was the day. D-Day. The date that had been set as an arbitrary deadline and circled on the calendar when all the work that Natasha, Bruce, Jane, Rocket, and Nebula had been doing was supposed to be proven.

Theoretically.

Steve knew better than to get his hopes up. This would be the third proof-of-concept since they’d started working together. The first two had been spectacular failures. The first started a fire in the hangar. The second knocked out the power on the whole compound for three days.

So.

If he had any hopes, they weren’t high. Maybe medium-to-low at best. Just enough to twist his gut with anticipation while he watched Rocket scurrying over the small platform making final adjustments. Jane caught his eye from her place behind the monitors and offered a small smile. “Don’t worry,” she said, raising her voice over the low hum of the machines they’d been building. “We’ve got three back-up generators standing by this time.”

“I’m not worried,” he lied, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think it’ll work this time?”

“I’d say it should,” Bruce said conversationally, stepping from behind the frame of the doorway—the one that was supposed to take them into the quantum realm and allow them to travel back to retrieve the stones before Thanos could get them. “But I would have said that the last two times so.” He looked up from the tablet in his hands. “Science.”

“She’s an ever-loving bitch,” Rocket replied, deadpan as he wiped his paws on his pants.

“But we wouldn’t have her any other way,” Jane said, cheerful enough that Steve felt his hopes creep up just a few degrees while he waited for final calculations and adjustments to happen.

“Where’s Nebula?” he asked, glancing around for the missing member of the posse.

“Little Miss Sunshine went to hit some shit with Danvers on Drez-Lar,” Rocket said. “Said she didn’t want to be around to witness another inevitable failure.”

“That’s sweet,” Steve muttered.

“She wasn’t that sweet about it,” Natasha told him as she sidled up on his right. He glanced over at the same time she did, and she raised her eyebrows with a little wiggle. “But I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” she admitted quietly. “I think it’s gonna work.”

“Let’s get this party started,” Rocket went on, giving the doorframe a final tap. “Some of us are working with a limited lifespan.”

Jane rolled her eyes as she worked. “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled momentarily before she looked up again. “Okay, Bruce. We’re ready. Let ‘er rip.”

Steve held his breath. Bruce tapped a portion of the screen in his hands with finality. He looked up and Steve followed his gaze to the portal. There was a deep rumbling beneath his feet and the air in the hangar crackled with electricity that made all the hair on his arms stand on end.

The fillings in his teeth ached for a long, painful moment before there was a loud _pop_. And then a fizzle. And then the rumbling and the electricity and the anticipation all died at the same time.

“No, no, no come on!” Jane exclaimed.

“What happened?” Steve asked.

“What happened?” Rocket echoed before he scoffed. “It didn’t work, Cap.”

“Do you think it was the output levels?” Bruce asked, approaching Jane at the bank of monitors.

“I’m going to be really surprised if it is,” she said tightly. “Because I checked them six different times just this morning.”

“It’s not the levels,” Rocket said from where he’d already unscrewed a piece of the portal, letting purple smoke pour out with a hiss. “It’s the core. That cerium gel Danvers brought from Torfa is too unstable...”

“Fuck,” Jane hissed bringing a hand up to cover her face.

“Wait,” Natasha looked from Rocket to Jane and back again. “Cerium?” she repeated. “I thought it was Lutetium.”

“Lutetium burns up twice as fast,” Rocket said, sounding as if he’d told them this before. “That’s what started the fire last time.”

Steve tried not to feel disappointed as two separate arguments began to develop quietly. It didn't work. He told himself he hadn't been counting on this being the answer, but of course he had been. He'd been hoping—without logic or reason—every day since they'd started this mission together, that this would be it. If not this, then the next thing. Every failure felt like punch straight to the teeth, sending them all the way back to square one. "So, what—" he raised his voice enough to be heard over the technical jargon he wasn’t understanding. "What do we do now?" 

"We'll see what we can salvage from this attempt," Natasha said quietly. "There's plenty to learn from whatever just went wrong."

He swallowed. "Anything I can do to help?" 

"Not yet," Bruce said, shaking his head with disappointment. "I'm sorry Steve," he said. "I really thought we had it this time."

"It's okay," he said. Because what else could it be? "We'll just keep trying."

There was a look shared around the room. Familiar, grim determination in the nod they gave one another. With nothing left for him to do, Steve left the hangar and wandered outside. 

Summer in upstate New York was beautiful--there was no denying that. The air was hot and fresh and sweet. The sky a perfect blue with only a few white streaks of clouds. Birds called to one another from the trees and Darcy was working her garden.

Despite the disappointment and the urge to despair and wallow in this most recent failure, Steve felt a smile pull at his lips at the sight of her large sunhat. 

"Come on," he heard her saying to her plants as he approached. "I know you can do it." 

He came around the side of the raised bed to find her with her hands in the black soil. As he watched, a slim green stalk emerged from the dirt and twirled upward until it matched the height of the rest of the plants in the bed. He smiled. "I think that's called cheating, you know."

"Call it whatever you want," she said with a smile he could hear in her voice, not looking up as she unearthed her hands and shook the dirt from them. "But you're not going to be splitting hairs when there's enough eggplant for eggplant parmesan in a few days." 

"That sounds delicious."

She looked up at him, tilting her head back to see under the wide brim of her hat as she sat back on her heels. She studied him for a moment, squinting in the sun despite her hat. "Didn't work, did it?"

Steve shook his head. "Nope."

"I'm sorry."

He sighed and crouched down next to her. "I don't know what we're supposed to do next."

"Fail better?" Darcy suggested quietly. Absently, she reached out and broke off a sprig of a flowering broccoli crown and crunched it between her teeth.

He nodded. "I don't know who I'm kidding saying _we_ ," he exhaled heavily again. "Never felt so fucking useless in my life."

Darcy bit her lip and pushed a lock of his hair back for him. "Useless?" she repeated with a soft smile. "Are you crazy? If you weren’t around, who'd open all my pickle jars?"

He smiled back faintly. He was just feeling sorry for himself—there was no plan to try and find a way to be of use anywhere else. In the twenty-eight months since Thanos had snapped his fingers, there had been plenty for him to do. He'd been the first wave of the clean-up crew, after all. Spent seven months working all over the globe trying to stabilize governments and communities, fixing what could be fixed, cleaning up after what could not. 

But then things had gone quiet. Thor went to Norway to live with the scraps of Asgardians that were left. Rhodes returned to what remained of the US military—and aside from Rhodey, Tony had never spoken to any of them again after their last fallout before the trip to the Garden.

No bad guys to fight, no more rubble to sift through. There was just...this. Whatever was left to try and piece together something that felt even close to normal.

Darcy's fingers trailed down the side of his face and he took hold of her hand, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm. She smelled like sweat and soil and things grown with love. "Good point," he said softly.

This felt pretty close to normal—this thing with Darcy. As normal, he supposed, as it could be for someone who might be immortal and a woman who happened be the physical embodiment of Death. She had still been at the compound when he’d returned—Jane having thrown herself right into solving this unthinkable problem and Darcy having nowhere else she felt needed—and they’d fallen into something that felt soft and sweet and inevitable.

"They're going to figure it out," she said, a firmness beneath her quiet tone. "I know it."

"How do you know?"

"Because for one thing," she smiled again softly. "I'm older than you, and I've seen more." He smirked back as she continued. "What Thanos did was..." she shook her head and the smile dropped from her face. "It was an abomination. Something that unnatural can't be permanent, no matter how it feels right now."

"What about what you said before?" he asked carefully. He appreciated that she wanted to make him feel better, but he didn't need her to lie to him. "About how this might just have to be something we have to accept."

"I've had time to feel it out," she said after a moment of consideration. "Nothing feels like its settling out there. Nothing feels balanced. And I know you like to think she's indifferent, but the universe doesn't like things out of balance." 

"That right?" he asked. "You think the universe wants us to fix this?" 

"I think if she had to pick a side?" Darcy restated the question. "Between you and Thanos, she'd put her money on you."

He felt himself smile again. "Soft spot for the little guy, huh?

"Something like that." She smiled back and looked over his shoulder, beyond him. "Cooper!" she called to the twelve-year-old heading out of the main house on the way to practice archery with his father. The only surviving members of the Barton family. Steve turned in time to see Clint offer to take his son's bow before he ran over. 

"What's up?" he asked, his round cheeks a little flushed from his brief sprint. 

"Wanna help me in the kitchen in a little bit? After you're done practicing with your dad?" 

Cooper nodded. "What are we making?" 

Darcy smiled. "How does pizza dough sound?" 

The boy's grin doubled in size, deepening the dimples on his cheeks. "But I thought you said we were having spaghetti squash tonight."

"Pfft," Steve watched Darcy's hand bat away the suggestion like it was a house fly. "We can have spaghetti squash tomorrow night. I think we've all earned a pizza night, don't you?" 

He nodded again. "I'll definitely help you," he said firmly. 

"Good," she grinned. "'Cause nobody makes dough as good as you do, Coop."

Cooper blushed and started to back away shyly. "I'll see you later," he said, offering her a wave before he turned and jogged back to his father.

“Pizza night?” Steve asked when they were alone again.

Darcy shrugged and looked after the boy, a thoughtful expression on her face. “He’s going to hear that they have to start over again,” she said after a minute. “And it’s going to make him think he’s never going to see his mom or his brother and sister again.” Her lips pursed in a frown. “And I can’t stop him from thinking that,” she added. “But it might be a little easier to process bad news with pizza.” Her eyes slid back to Steve and she smiled again. “Not to mention, that kid has a gift for bread dough. He’s a million times better at it than I am.”

Steve shook his head. "Got me to open your pickle jars, Cooper to make your pizza dough... Seems like you're really sittin' pretty these days."

She was still smiling as she got to her feet and dusted off her hands on the sides of her denim shorts. She pointed to the bench he'd built for her and the stack of baskets. "You want to sass me, or you want to help me pick what's ripe today?" 

Steve smiled. "I can't do both?" 

No one fought her on pizza night. She hadn't thought anyone would, but it was nice to see the way the simple suggestion of pizza brightened everyone's mood just a little. The magic of cheese on round bread being nearly enough to coax everyone out from under their clouds of disappointment.

“Janey,” she said grabbing Jane’s narrow forearm as she walked past from handing her plate to Clint and Natasha to wash. “Do me a favor?”

Jane still had balsamic vinegar at the corner of her lips from her two slices of caprese pizza. “What’s up?”

“Don’t go back to work tonight,” she requested. “Stay and hang out instead.”

Jane sighed. “Darcy, I really should—”

“You’re going to figure it out and you and the science club are going build the thing that saves the world,” she said firmly. “But you should take the night off.”

Jane stared at her for one, long moment before her narrow shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh. “Okay,” she said and sat down next to Darcy on the couch.

“Are you guys watching a movie?” Cooper asked, coming into living room with a sweating glass of lemonade in his hand.

“Thinking about it,” Darcy said, glancing from Cooper to Jane and back again. “Any requests?”

A slow smile came over Cooper’s face. “Did you know that Steve still hasn’t seen Star Wars?”

Her eyes flew open wide. “What!” She unwound her arm from where Jane had looped them together and shuffled up to her knees to lean over the arm of the couch where she could peer into the kitchen. Steve was at the sink, talking quietly with Nat while he and Clint dried the dishes she was washing. “Steven!” she called. He stopped and turned to look at her. “Star Wars?” she asked. “Never once?”

His ears turned pink and he smiled. “Someone spoiled the big plot twist for me before I could watch it,” he shrugged. “And I’ve watched Star Trek—if that counts for anything.”

“It absolute does not count for anything in this conversation,” Clint said, shaking his head sadly. “And the big twist is _not_ the reason you watch Star Wars.”

“How the hell have you never seen Star Wars?” Rocket asked in disbelief. “I’m not even from this planet and I’ve seen Star Wars.”

“Wait,” Bruce looked up from his tablet. “Who’s watching Star Wars?”

“Everyone,” Natasha said as she pulled up the stopper and let the soapy water drain from the sink. She looked at Steve with a grin. “Time to right an egregious misstep in your twentieth century education.”

It seemed like everyone had been waiting for an excuse to take a night off.

“Okay, but we can skip the prequels, right?” Clint asked. “They’re the worst.”

“Shut up,” Jane was already working the remote, spinning through the unending collection of shows and films Tony had programmed into the smart tech long ago. Her eyes didn’t leave the screen as she skimmed. “The prequels are great. And we have to start at the beginning.” Snacks were acquired as the dishes were finished and the small group gathered in the living room on the armchairs and opposite side of the sofa.

She watched everyone settle in as the lights dimmed automatically. The quiet excitement, the palpable relief at doing something normal. The loving barbs and snorts of laughter shot back and forth while the movie began. This was why she stayed as Darcy, she reminded herself. Because this group of people needed her and because after thirteen billion years, this was the closest she’d ever felt to having a real home. A real family. Something that could feel a little bit like hers.

It was about halfway through _Attack of the Clones_ that she felt Steve’s hand on her ankle. He’d sat in front of her on the floor when it was obvious that Jane wasn’t giving up her spot to anyone. She thought it was an accidental brush at first, until his fingers moved more deliberately in a long, slow stroke up her calf. She bit her lip and shifted slightly, pressing her foot against his hip. He did it again, this time letting his short nails drag along her skin and sending goosebumps over her arms.

She managed to wait through another battle between drones and clones and Jedis before the pleasant teasing of Steve’s fingers against her skin was too much to pretend she didn’t enjoy. She slipped herself out from beneath the weight of Jane drowsing against her, giving her friend a pillow to lean on instead.

“Tapping out?” Bruce asked, looking up with a smile from the armchair across the room.

She stretched her arms overhead and nodded. “A little prequel goes a long way with me.”

“No, they’re good,” Jane muttered sleepily against her pillow as she cuddled deep into the corner of the couch Darcy had just vacated.

“Can we keep watching them tomorrow?” Cooper asked hopefully, though his eyelids looked heavy from where she stood.

“Sure, pal,” Clint said, his arm around his boy. He kissed the top of his head.

She smiled and gave Jane’s hair a little pat, pushing a wish for pleasant, restful dreams into her head as she did so. “Goodnight, everyone,” she waved as she retreated from the room and down the long hall to the bedroom she’d been calling home for the last two years.

It took Steve almost forty minutes to follow her—surprising, considering he’d been the one teasing her and not the other way around. She looked up with a smile from her book when he opened the door to her room and slipped inside. “Couldn’t tear yourself away, huh?”

“It’s a surprisingly compelling story,” he said with a grin as she dropped her bookmark into place and set the book on the bedside table.

She rose up onto her knees and met him at the foot of the bed, pushing his shirt up and over his head as all the want he’d stirred up before came rushing back. “And because you’re a tease.”

He ducked his head and kissed her, quick and playful, as his hands slipped under her t-shirt to span across her back. “Well,” his smile bumped into hers when their lips met again. “That too.”

She pulled him on top of her, pushing and kicking away their layers of clothing until there was nothing left between them and her legs could wrap around his hips when he pushed into her. His lips were on hers again, muffling the sound he pulled from deep in her throat. He groaned when she rolled her hips against his and met his next thrust. Her hands skated over his back, her nails scratched lightly before he took hold of her arms and pulled them up over her head. Her wrists crossed over each other and Steve held them in place with one hand.

This was why she stayed as Darcy, too, Death had to admit to herself. Because Darcy was entirely human and free to lose herself in the taste of Steve’s lips and tongue against hers. In the way he filled and stretched her so completely that she missed him every time he pulled out. In the comforting weight of him on top of her and the smell of his skin, his hair, his sweat, invading all her senses. Darcy was free to quiet her mind and just let her body take over, give into the pleasure Steve’s hands and lips sent through her like waves, growing stronger and stronger until his fingers slipped between them and he sucked at her racing pulse just beneath her jaw and that wave crested inside of her and she came with a sound almost like a sob.

When he found his own release, it was with his forehead pressed to hers and his eyes open until the last moment when his rhythm slowed, and he spilled into her. She wanted to tell him he was beautiful, that she loved him, but he kissed the words off the tip of her tongue, and she settled for trading long, slow kisses and wrapping her legs around his hips just to keep him inside her a little longer.

He had piled all the pillows in the middle and lay on his back when she came back from the bathroom and pulled her oversized t-shirt over her head again. His eyes were heavy, she noted when she climbed back into bed and he opened his arms so she could cuddle against him; he blinked slowly, like a little boy when he smiled at her. “Where are you?” he asked.

She smiled back and kissed him. “I’m here,” she reminded. “In bed with you.”

“And where else?”

Death took in a deep breath and tucked her head beneath his chin. “I’m in a village in Laos,” she told him. “With an old woman who’s worried her children will stop speaking to each other after she’s gone.”

“And where else?”

Her fingers trailed over the lines of hard muscle on his stomach. “Arago-7,” her nails drew soft lines from his navel to his sternum and back again. “A Huctarian man’s heart gave out while he was working.”

“Arago-7,” Steve repeated, and she could hear that his eyes were already closed. “What happened to Aragos 1-6?”

She laughed softly and turned her head to kiss his chest. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Go to sleep.”

“Do you have work to do?” he asked, his voice falling deeper into his chest, sounding farther away.

She kissed him again. “I always have work to do.”

Death didn’t remember closing her eyes but when she opened them, she was somewhere else. A library. A familiar library, she noted as her eyes moved over the oceans of books, the unending rows and hallways that drifted into eternity. The ornate dome of stained glass overhead depicting all the best stories.

Lucien’s library. The library at the center of the castle in the heart of The Dreaming. Where every book ever dreamt of was kept.

She sighed. “There was a time when we used to _invite_ one another to our realms, Morpheus,” she reminded curtly. “Not just pull in whoever we wanted without warning.”

Her brother was standing behind her when turned around, imposing to anyone else in his sweeping black cloak and dazzling starlight eyes. “I have been waiting for you, sister,” he said in a tone just as measured.

“Waiting for what?” she asked, looking down to make sure he hadn’t dragged her in here in her previous state of undress. He hadn’t. She wore her usual clothes—black on black with her ankh around her neck as always.

“Waiting for you to stop wasting your time in that mortal form and realize what it’s doing to you.”

She followed him as he began to walk. “And what is it you think it’s doing to me?”

He pulled open the heavy doors and started down the hall toward his living quarters. “You’ve been her—” he waved a hand over his shoulder in her direction, “Darcy—for too long. You’re beginning to lose your perspective. Your work will start to suffer.”

“Excuse me?” she scoffed, reaching out to grab his hand. They stopped in the middle of the corridor, silvery moonlight pouring in through the tall, skinny windows. “You think my _work_ is going to suffer?” she demanded when he turned back to her. “Do I need to remind you who is the older sibling here? Or maybe I should remind you that I haven’t missed a single moment since mankind crawled out of the ooze _six_ _million_ years ago?”

“Yes, and you’ve had a blindingly soft spot for them ever since.”

“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes. “As if I’m going to take advice from you—”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, looking almost hurt.

She didn’t stumble. “It means that you act above them, Morpheus. You always have—”

“Oh, I do not—”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “You do! You think they’re vain and cruel and destructive—”

“And they are!”

“Yes,” she said again. “And they’re also kind and compassionate and capable of love and sacrifice and—”

“And you’re not one of them,” Morpheus cut her off, coldly. “Whether you see it or not, you’re starting to slip. You have more power than any being in the universe, Death. Why are you wasting it, mixing yourself up with these mortals?”

She stared at her brother, anger coursing through her. “They’re not all mortals,” she reminded quietly.

“For now.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?” An unbidden rush of cold swept inside of her, fingers of doubt and suspicion curled slowly around her heart. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that whatever happened that made Steven Rogers immortal was a mistake,” he snapped. “And you know as well as I do that when the universe makes a mistake, it’s corrected. With interest. You practically said as much yourself.”

Death took in a deep breath, steadying herself. “So that’s what this little intervention is about?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re worried that—”

“I’m worried that you are starting to forget yourself,” Morpheus said, softening his tone. “The longer a part of you stays as Darcy, the harder it will be when that mistake gets undone.”

“Everything dies, Morpheus,” she said evenly. “I haven’t forgotten that.”

Only that wasn’t true. Not everything died. Not everything could; not everything had to.

Not love. 

Not always.

“I have to help them fix what Thanos did,” she said after a long, tense moment had passed between them. “Even with all my power, I can’t do it myself,” she reminded. “And they need me…so I’m staying.” She shrugged. “I need to. If we’re going to undo what Thanos did—if anything is ever going to feel like it’s balanced again, then I need to stay with them.”

Her brother looked deflated. “Will you at least consider what I said?”

“There’s nothing to consider,” she shook her head. “You’re wrong. About me, about them, about Steve—”

“I’m only saying this because I care about you.”

She met his eyes with an unwavering look. “Then send me back, please,” she requested tightly. “I have work to do.”

Steve was sound asleep when she opened her eyes again. She wasn’t lying to her brother; she _did_ have work to do. Darcy may have been able to stay curled up against Steve’s chest, his smooth skin and steady heartbeat beneath her cheek, but Death could not.

Death never got to rest.


	7. 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh haii it's been a minute. The muse wants what it wants, apparently, and this week it wanted to get us all to the final arc of this little fic instead of focusing on literally any of the dozens of other WIPs I've started since last posting an update for this bad boy. But here we are. Bottoms up, kittens, it's about to get angsty.

This was wrong.

This was all wrong.

This was supposed to have fixed everything. Brought everyone back. Turned the clock back five years to undo the Snap. Stopped Thanos before he could finish his mission. Kept Natasha alive. Restored Vision. Saved the world and set the universe to rights again.

They’d all known it was the only way. Despite what Tony wanted to stamp his feet about, just undoing the Snap and bringing everyone back five years into the future was not the answer. There were too many variables. Too many dominoes that had already fallen that they couldn’t guarantee would be righted if they didn’t use the time stone and go back to 2018.

Tony had given them more than Steve had expected. He’d helped them build the quantum tunnel so they could go back and retrieve the stones, but he couldn’t bring himself to go with them. He wanted to spend every second he could with Pepper and especially Morgan, in case something happened to blip her from existence.

Steve didn’t think that would be the case. Pepper had even told Tony it was unlikely—she was already pregnant before the Snap, after all. But it hadn’t changed his mind. He didn’t want to risk winding up with memories of a child that didn’t exist, wishing for a timeline he could never return to, turning into his father, drinking himself into bitterness wishing for things to be different.

When Natasha had not returned with Clint from Vormir, it had only cemented their resolve to go back. Not just for all the people who’d been snapped away, but for her, who had given her life to make sure they succeeded.

And they had.

Almost.

They had turned back the clock as planned. Thor was quicker. Steve and Wanda kept Vision safe long enough to spare him. Thanos’ army retreated when they saw the god of thunder bury is his axe in their leader’s skull, nearly cleaving him in half with a cry of rage and pain and vengeance.

But somewhere along the line, something had still gone terribly wrong because this time—in this battle, this version of this horrible day—when the smoke cleared, they were still one soldier down.

Steve had not thought to keep his eyes on her. He had been focused on Vision, on protecting him and the stone and Wanda long enough to save their lives. He’d been watching for Thanos. Making sure that Thor was ready to swing as soon as his boots hit the earth in Wakanda. He had been so focused on winning. On getting Bucky back. On getting Sam back. So focused on this one, single enemy, that he had lost sight of all the others. He’d lost sight of her. He’d assumed she would do what she’d done the last time.

But this wasn’t last time, he realized too late. This was this time.

And this time, Natasha’s body looked so small when M’Baku carried her back from the riverbed. Proxima Midnight had driven her blade straight through her stomach moments before Okoye had arrived to help her. And while Midnight’s head and body were now lying on opposite sides of the river, it had been too late.

Natasha was dead before she hit the ground.

T’Challa had allowed them to bring her body to the palace. She was placed on a polished stone slab and covered with a soft, silver cloth while they were given time to decide what to do.

“You understand she cannot be buried here,” T’Challa said to Steve once the dust had settled outside and the reality of the situation—of his _failure—_ had begun to really set in. “It’s nothing personal, but—”

“No,” Steve shook his head. “No, I understand. You’ve done more than enough,” he’d assured the king.

T’Challa had placed a hand briefly on his shoulder as the others had begun filtering in. “You will have the time you need to make your arrangements,” he said kindly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Rhodes was the first to speak once he was sure they were alone. “We can go back again,” he said firmly.

“No, we can’t,” Bruce countered immediately.

“Why not?” he demanded. “We just did it. We know it works. We can go back and make sure we keep an eye on her this time and make sure—”

“And what happens when one of us keeping an eye on _her_ makes it so we’re not keeping an eye on Thanos?” Rocket asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, I like her just as much as you do but—”

“Don’t doubt me, Rabbit,” Thor said gravely. “I’ve killed Thanos twice now, I can manage to kill him again.”

“It’s not just that,” Bruce spoke up.

“No, it _is_ just that,” Rhodes responded. “We just moved hell and earth to get back here so we _all_ get to walk away from this, remember? Wasn’t that the point?”

“The point was to stop Thanos—” Rocket argued.

“And we _did_ that,” Rhodes snapped. “Now we finish the job and—”

“We don’t know what kind of ramifications our use of the time stone is going to have,” Bruce cut him off with a fierce whisper. “The Ancient One gave me the Time Stone with a very specific set of instructions and I swore to her we’d follow them. We are screwing around with timelines now and alternate universes and a whole bunch of shit that none of us fully understand. We go back a second time, who knows what all we set into motion.”

“Steve.”

Steve’s eyes had fallen to the only part of Natasha that he could see. The very edge of her pinky. The nail broken and the cuticle torn and bloody. He forced himself to look up and into the faces of the four members of his team here who knew the truth. The rest, Clint, Scott, Carol, Jane, and Nebula should have retained their memories, but they’d been scattered back to wherever they’d been at that exact moment in time. “What?”

“Tell me you agree with me,” Rhodes said firmly. “Tell me you’re not okay with just letting Nat die _again_ when we have the ability to bring her back.”

“And maybe kill a lot more in the process,” Bruce added with a hard swallow.

Steve stared at them all. Bloody and bruised and more broken than anyone had any right to be. He felt his jaw clench. “I don’t know,” he said finally after a long, heavy silence had fallen over them. “I don’t…” he stopped and shook his head. “I don’t know.” It wasn’t what anyone wanted to hear. He wanted to have an answer for them, but he couldn’t make that call. Not on his own. Not with Bruce being very right about not messing with time any more than they already had. And Rhodes being very convincing about having come this far already. “I just…” he exhaled tightly. “I need a minute. I think we all do.”

The minute they’d given him had stretched into an hour. Then two. Then he stopped counting minutes while he sat there, staring at the body of the woman who’d been the closest thing he’d had to family for more than a decade. Wondering if he was capable of letting her stay dead this time. Wondering if he’d be able to live with himself for doing anything other than what she’d do for him. He should be looking for Sam, for Bucky, checking in with Wanda and Vision and making sure that everyone he’d just worked so hard to save was, in fact, safe. More than that, he owed it to them to let them be here with Natasha. To process her loss, to honor the person they had all loved. The person he might not be able to save.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when she arrived. Quietly, appearing in the space between one second and the next. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the tip of her tongue dart out to wet her lips. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, dropping her head. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He pressed the palms of his hands together. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I know,” she said softly.

He blinked when he realized that he had taken for granted that the rest of the plan had worked. He looked back at her. “How much do you—”

“I remember everything,” she assured him. “So does Jane. She’s getting on a plane back to New York in the morning. She already heard from Clint. Scott will probably check in once he’s out of the quantum realm as scheduled. They’ll get to work on the creating the tunnel again as soon as everyone is back.”

In the back of his mind, underneath all this grief and confusion and anger, he felt relieved. It _had_ worked. He frowned and looked back down at his hands. He didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted; what he’d desperately been hoping she could do for him. “Where are you?”

He heard her sad smile. It was a question he’d asked her a million times over the last five years. A sweet game they’d play that somehow normalized the most bizarre parts of their relationship. How many nights had he fallen asleep to the sound her voice, the feel of her fingers trailing over his skin while she talked about the millions of worlds and realities she was experiencing all at once. “I’m with Jane,” she said finally. “Booking a flight to New York from Norway. And in a thousand other places with all the people who were always meant to die today.” She paused and tentatively reached her fingertips to the middle of his back. Her touch was warm and gentle and soft as always. “And I’m here,” she added finally. “With you.”

He knew what she was saying. That she was here and not here. That if anyone else were to come in, they would not see her. She might have even stolen this moment to be with him, suspended the world around them so she could offer him some form of comfort that he stubbornly would not let himself accept.

“Do you—” his voice caught in his throat and he clenched his jaw as his vision blurred without permission. “Do you _have_ to take her?”

“Steve…”

“Do you?” he asked, turning back to face her. “Can’t you just bring her back? Let her stay? Let her live in the world she just saved?” Darcy’s eyes filled with tears as she shook her head slowly. “Please?” he asked, not caring how desperate he sounded. How scared. “ _Please_? Can’t you do that? Can’t you do that for me?”

She reached out with her other hand and touched his cheek. “I would do anything for you,” she said, not looking away even as a tear escaped her eye. “And yes, I would fix this if I could but this…” her lips pursed into another frown. “This isn’t up to me.”

He felt a flare of anger and he pulled away from her touch, standing up to put space between them. “Then who is it up to?” he demanded. “Who do I have to talk to?” He would regret this later, he knew. This harsh tone, this instinct to pull back and protect himself. After everything they'd shared for the last five years, he knew he should be clinging to her, letting her take care of him and treating her like the lifeline she was. One of the only people who understood how much harder this loss was, how much deeper it cut.

But right now, he was just angry. They had all come so far, sacrificed so much, just to have the way to get Natasha back to be this close and kept from him by some cosmic set of rules he wasn’t allowed to know.

“It’s not—”

“Don’t give me some bullshit about the universe course-correcting or everything having to die—just tell me who can fix this. Who can bring her back?”

“You.”

Steve stopped. “What?”

“That’s what I came here to tell you, Steve,” she said, standing up and letting her hand rest on the table next to Natasha’s body. “I can’t fix this because she wasn’t—” she hesitated.

“She wasn’t what?” he demanded.

“She wasn’t…there.”

“What does that mean?”

“I should have been there the moment her soul left her body and when I went to be with her she just…” her fingers twitched like she was grasping for something out of reach. “She just faded away. Just like everyone after the Snap it’s…” she trailed off and shook her head. It was only then that Steve realized how shaken she looked. How confused and lost. “That’s only ever happened one other day before.”

“So if you didn’t take her,” he said slowly, trying to figure out what she was saying. “Then she’s not really gone. And that means Rhodey’s right—we can use the time stone—”

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Bruce is right. You can’t keep turning back the clock when something goes wrong. There are rules to follow,” she went on, firmly. “I know you don’t want to hear about them, but the universe has rules and what you all did broke a whole bunch of them.”

He felt the frustration bubbling again. “Then how am I supposed to be able to get her back?” he asked. “You said—”

“I said you could,” she agreed. “But not like that.” She looked down at the body between them. “This Natasha is gone,” she said with quiet determination. “But your Natasha— _our_ Natasha—” she corrected herself. Because she had grown to love Natasha too. They had spent years all living together as a family. Pizza nights and rainy days. Bad jokes and board games. Cooking and crying and working and failing and succeeding all together. “Our Natasha is still on Vormir. If she sacrificed herself for the soul stone,” Darcy said carefully, selecting her words with consideration before she spoke them. “Then there’s a chance that you could still get her back.”

He felt a faint flicker of hope rekindle in his heart. “How?”

***

With their memories intact and the plans still fresh in their minds, the crew who had built the original quantum tunnel was able to assemble a second one in record time. Steve only had a handful of days to spend with Bucky and Sam in Wakanda, helping with clean-up and reconstruction before Rocket’s message arrived that they were back in business.

He hadn’t figured out how to tell anyone else what had happened—what had really happened. Not Sam, not Bucky, not Wanda. He would eventually, he told himself. Of course he would. But after this last mission. After Natasha was back with her family and they could all take a nice, long break.

_Then_ he’d find a way to tell them what they did. How they’d lost and what they’d done to bring everyone back.

But he had to finish the job first, he reminded himself when he boarded the quinjet the morning after receiving Rocket’s message.

He had to bring _everyone_ back.

***

To Darcy, he was only gone for five minutes.

To Death, it was much longer.

She still had work to do, of course. She _always_ had work to do. But in between souls, she let her mind and her memory drift back to the night before the first trip through the tunnel. When she had felt something slipping through her fingers. When Steve had fucked her slowly with the silvery moonlight falling in thick beams across their bed. When the only sound in the room had been their shallow breathing and the sounds they made when he was inside her. When she kept her eyes closed when she was on top of him, afraid that if she let herself look at him for too long, she’d have to admit that they were saying goodbye and the moment would be over before she’d had enough.

She missed him before he was even gone. As soon as Scott had appeared at the gate with his breakthrough, she’d known it was over. Their little life with her garden and the family they’d cobbled together. It had been built carefully, lovingly, out of necessity. But once they did what they’d set out to do—once they’d fixed what had caused the need in the first place—

They’d have their memories, but that would be it. Steve had acted like nothing between them would change, like they could carry on the way they had been. But how could they? They’d only had the time they did because the universe had stopped. Just long enough to let them be in the same place at the same time, to let all the things that had kept them apart stop mattering so much.

But the plan was to start it spinning again. That had _always_ been the plan. To undo everything that had given them the chance to fall in love in the first place. Even if they could remember the life they’d had together, it wouldn’t be the same. It _couldn’t_ be the same. That was the whole point.

For everyone else, it was five minutes.

Five tense minutes waiting on the platform for Steve to return.

For Death, it was much longer.

Because Death felt the shift before anyone else did. Before anyone else could. A prickle in the back of her mind, pressure like an unfriendly hand at the back of her neck. Something that felt like the beginning of a headache that refused to fully commit.

Her hand was reaching for her list before she realized it. It lived in her phone these days, having spent centuries as notebooks, bound books, and scrolls of parchment. She didn’t really need it, but it was nice to have when she needed to double check herself. When she wanted to be sure.

Or in the case of the five minutes Steve was gone, when she desperately wanted to be proven wrong.

The souls she carried did not know she was elsewhere, scrolling frantically through billions of names while the panic started to build in the back of her throat. Meanwhile she felt Jane’s small hand touch Darcy’s shoulder and give a brief squeeze and an encouraging smile.

“He’s going to be fine, Darce,” she said softly.

Darcy made herself nod, not trusting herself to say anything else. Not having time to. Not needing to, as it turned out.

Because in the next moment, the quantum tunnel glowed and hummed again, and Natasha appeared on the platform. Soaking wet, freezing, and the only thing holding Steve’s unconscious body upright.

While everyone leapt into action, Darcy was stuck in place, staring at his ashen skin, the slack of his jaw, the lifelessness of his limbs. When they carried him past her, heading for the medical wing, Darcy forced herself to go with them. Even though she knew what was coming.

Death stopped her scrolling as soon as he’d returned with Natasha. The name that had been missing from her list for so long had finally reappeared. The universe had corrected her error at long last, just as Death had been promised she would.

Steven Grant Rogers, who was supposed to have died in 1945 and again in 2014, was mortal once more.

And he had less than twenty-fours hours to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm not fond of this chapter. It was a necessary filler that didn't work when combined with anything else, but I don't blame anyone who doesn't love it. Far and beyond not my best work. Just...uh...be sweet if you choose to comment? It's been a year, y'all. 
> 
> Hoping the next few parts and conclusion will be better.
> 
> <3


	8. 2018: Twelve Hours Remaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who said the sweetest things when I was feeling less than thrilled about the work I'm doing on this fic. You're all the bees knees and I'm so lucky. FYI: there is one tiny half-moment borrowed from Watchmen in this chapter.

_He’d built her ten raised garden beds. Ten beds she spent the day filling with soil and then later, seeds that she’d turn into vegetables. Turn into food for her friends. For this sudden family that had fallen in broken pieces at her feet._

_She didn’t see him for two more days after their encounter by the fire pit. He’d been busy with Rhodes and then with Natasha, working and spending most of his time on the opposite side of the compound._

_It was late, well after everyone else had gone to bed, that he found her in the kitchen, washing the black dirt from beneath her fingernails. She heard him stop in the doorway over the sound of the water running. She shut the water off and reached for a towel. “Hi, Steve.”_

_He coughed and took a few steps toward her. “Hi. Were you, uh—” he stopped again when she turned from the sink and leaned against the counter. Like a kid caught during a game of Red-light/Green-light. “I saw you,” he said, starting over. “Out in the—” he motioned toward where he’d placed her garden boxes._

_She nodded and felt a smile on her lips. “Just making sure everyone’s happy in their new home.”_

_His own smile was brief, but enough to make her insides flutter. “Kinda late for gardening, isn’t it?”_

_She shook her head. “No, I read it’s better to do it at night. That way the plants have time to react to any changes in their environment and can just focus on growing once the sun comes out.”_

_Steve smiled again like she’d said something funny. “I don’t know why it surprises me that you read gardening books,” he admitted after she’d raised her eyebrows, waiting for the joke. “Seems like something you’d just…know.”_

_She smiled back and looked down at her clean hands. A thick dark curl fell into her face. “I’m not all-knowing and all-powerful,” she said softly. “I’m just old.”_

_To her surprise, he chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, taking a few steps closer until he could lean against the counter as well, a few feet away. “I know the feeling.”_

_She scoffed and felt the first real laugh she’d let bubble up inside in weeks. “I’ve got a few years on you, Cap.”_

_His head tilted to one side and he seemed to study her a little more closely. “How…many years?”_

_“13 billion,” she answered easily before she frowned. “Well. 13.8. So more like 14.”_

_“14 billion,” he mused lightly. “If I had to guess, I would’ve said…nine, maybe ten billion. Tops.”_

_She hummed another little laugh as she pushed away from the counter to move to the cupboard where Jane had stuck a container of cashews. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”_

_When her back was to him, she heard him clear his throat. “Um. About the other night.” She moved a bag of tortilla chips and waited for him to continue. “When we—uh—” another small cough. She heard him rub absently at his forehead. “When I kissed you—”_

_She stopped her rummaging and turned around slowly, hoping she was keeping her face neutral. Not too hopeful. Not too eager. She was 14 billion years old, she reminded herself. She didn’t need to get her feelings hurt by a man when he told her that kissing her had been a mistake. Something he felt badly about. Something that had only happened because the world had just ended a few weeks ago. “Yeah?”_

_He looked like he’d only rehearsed up until that point. His eyes widened in a moment of panic before he coughed again. “That was.” He fidgeted. “That was nice.”_

_She blinked in surprise. “Uh…”_

_His face fell. “Unless it wasn’t—”_

_“No,” she felt a smile tug at her lips. “No, it was…” she bit her bottom lip. “It was really nice.”_

_He looked so relieved, she thought she might have fallen in love with him right then. At least a little bit._

Sacrifice had always been at the heart of the soul stone. That’s what its keeper had said when Natasha and Clint had gone to Vormir the first time. That was why so many people had sought the stone over the centuries…and why so few had ever possessed it.

Because no one was willing to sacrifice enough to hold it in their hand. No one except Thanos. Except Natasha.

…except Steve.

“But he was giving the stone back,” Sam said once he was back in New York, standing at the foot of Steve’s hospital bed. “I don’t understand what happened.”

“He wasn’t just giving it back though,” Natasha corrected. Her voice was still hoarse. Deeper than it usually was. “He came to get me. It was another exchange,” she said, her palms pressed together. Her mouth set in a grim, straight line. “It was the same bargain as before. Just in reverse.”

“So if what happened before,” Bucky said carefully, from where he’d been stationed on the other side of the room, closer to the window, “happened again…then he should be dead,” his eyes went to Steve’s unconscious body and then back to Natasha. “Shouldn’t he?” Darcy caught a flash of pain in his eyes that echoed her own as he went on, haltingly, “If that’s…” he coughed. “I mean, if you said that’s what happened—”

He was trying so hard to hope, she realized with another pang. Trying so hard to let himself be relieved that Natasha had been returned to them—to _him_ —while still hoping that it somehow meant that Steve would be okay. That they could all be safe in the same place and the same time.

“It must have cost him the serum,” Darcy spoke up finally. The attention of the room snapped in her direction. She could see right away that most of them had forgotten she was there. She didn’t blame them. Most of the people posted at Steve’s bedside—Sam, Bucky, Wanda—had no idea who she was, why she was there, why she cared so much. “Whatever he did to bring you back,” she went on, speaking to Natasha, who still looked at her with fond familiarity. “That must have been the cost.”

“She’s right,” Dr. Samson said grimly on his reentry into the room. Bruce’s former colleague had only been an hour away in the city when he’d been called for a consult. “Looking at the blood we took when he first arrived,” he held up a Starkpad with a host of data. “There’s not a trace of Erskine’s original formula left in his system.”

“What does that mean?” Wanda asked, anxiously spinning the silver ring on her middle finger. “What can you do for him?”

Dr. Samson looked blank for a moment before he exchanged a look with Bruce, who’d followed him in. “I don’t…” he frowned. “Whatever happened to him on Vormir…” the word sounded strange and unfamiliar coming from his mouth. “It took almost everything from him. The scans we did show minimal brain activity, he can barely breathe on his own, he’s experiencing multiple organ failure, his heart is weakened—”

“Okay, so what can you _do_ about that?” Sam asked again, more firmly than Wanda had.

Again, Samson looked blank. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’m not sure there’s anything we can do.”

Sam’s eyes closed and he shook his head. “Come on, man…”

“It doesn’t mean we’re going to stop trying—” Bruce said as Darcy pushed herself away from the wall and slipped past them, back down the hall where she could be alone.

It wasn’t until she was halfway across the compound that she remembered that the room she was heading for—the one where she’d slept with Steve almost every night for years—was no longer hers.

_The sound of ceramic shattering could be heard from inside the house. After the fire had been put out and the damaged equipment hauled away, everyone had scattered to separate corners of the compound. Licking their scientific wounds, tending to their physical ones, trying to figure out what had gone wrong and how close to square one they’d be when they started again tomorrow._

_Her mug of hot chocolate was warming her hands, even though it was late summer, and everyone had been complaining about the heat and humidity for weeks. She made her way slowly toward the hangar where something else had shattered, confirming her suspicions that not everyone was feeling subdued in their disappointment._

_A pile of broken plates had collected next to the concrete wall. They were old plates. Mismatched patterns of brown and cream ducks and stalks of wheat. Faded roses and sickly green ivy. “Don’t worry,” Steve huffed when she approached. “That’s what I bought these for.”_

_She took a sip of her hot chocolate. It was rich and creamy and slid down her throat like a luxury. “I’m not worried,” she assured him with a shrug. “Being in a million pieces actually improves most of those designs as far as I can tell.” She watched him bend to a large cardboard box full of mismatched plates and teacups and saucers and select a butter dish with a late-70s pattern of brown and orange stripes. He waited until she was well out of the way before he hurled it, overhand, so hard it practically exploded when it hit the wall. “Bad day, huh?”_

_“No,” he said easily. “No, it’s been great. Sitting around watching the first real lead we had on fixing this broken, fucked up world literally go up in smoke.” He picked up another dish. A saucer this time. Poorly painted irises. “Been really fucking enlightening.”_

_The saucer shattered just as cleanly as the others._

_“What do you mean that’s what you bought these for?” she asked, ignoring his sarcasm._

_He stopped, surprised by her question enough to stop looking for another weapon. “It’s supposed to be a coping mechanism,” he said after a moment. “For anger. Instead of breaking things you might need again, you buy some cheap ugly dishes and keep them around for when you want to throw something.” He glanced up when he felt her still watching and studying him. “Something a therapist told me to try once,” he added gruffly before he resumed his search._

_She felt her eyebrows lift. “_ You _went to therapy?”_

_He looked up again. “Just twice.”_

_“How many punching bags did you destroy before you started throwing plates?”_

_“Today?” he asked. “Three.”_

_“Mm.” She waited a little longer, enjoying the slow sipping of her hot chocolate before she finally asked, “And…how many more plates you think you’ll need to throw before you realize none of this is your fault?”_

_He stared at her. “I don’t need you to lie to me, Darcy,” he muttered and picked up a plate. “I can do that all on my own.”_

_She rolled her eyes and set her mug down. “Come on,” she said firmly, holding out her hand._

_He didn’t take it. “No thanks, I’m good.”_

_“Yeah, sure,” she agreed. “You’re good, I’m good, we’re all good,” she grumbled and slipped her hand into his before he could protest._

_The maternity wing of St. George’s hospital was still largely welcoming and inviting. Clean and with bright colors on the walls. The staff took no notice of them as Death led Steve down the hallway, keeping his hand in hers. “What are we doing here?” he asked dully, barely shuffling to keep up with her._

_“Currently?” she asked, not looking back at him while she studied the room numbers. “You’re pouting and I’m working—”_

_He pulled his hand from hers. “I’m not pouting,” he said firmly before he stopped, seeming to realize what a lie that was as it fell from his lips. He looked around. “This is…”_

_“A maternity wing,” she assured him and started walking again._

_A look of mild horror passed over his face. “Why did you bring me here?”_

_“Perspective,” she said and set her sights on the room where she was needed next. “Come on,” she motioned with her head. “I don’t want to be late.”_

_Steve reached out and grabbed hold of her hand the second before she ducked inside. “I don’t—” he looked panicked. “I don’t want to be here for this.”_

_“That’s fine,” she said simply. “You can wait outside.” Inside the room, a woman was screaming through gritted teeth. She was flanked by two women who looked just like her. Sisters, Death knew right away. Each one held a hand. One swept a damp cloth over her forehead._

_“Not long now, Puja,” the doctor at the foot of the bed said encouragingly. “Just a few more big pushes and—”_

_“STOP TALKING TO ME!” Puja exclaimed as tears rolled down her face. Her dark hair was soaked with sweat and the veins in her neck and forehead stood out with each labored breath._

_“You’re doing so good,” her older sister said, standing up to press a kiss to her temple._

_“YOU DON’T TALK TO ME EITHER!” She snapped, but Death saw how she squeezed her sister’s hand, clinging to her like a lifeline. There was more screaming. More threats if anyone tried to encourage her. And finally, there was a tiny baby boy with a shock of black hair and a smooth, brown cheek where Death pressed her fingertips seconds before he took his first breath._

_“He’s not crying,” Puja said with an edge to her voice. “Why isn’t he crying?”_

_“He doesn’t have anything to cry about,” the nearest nurse said kindly, holding up Puja’s new son so his mother could see he was perfectly healthy and opening his dark brown eyes for the first time._

_Steve was standing in the doorway, watching with a mix of apprehension and fascination on his face. “What happened?” he asked after she slipped between moments to deliver a kiss and a wish for good luck to the baby just after his mother had given him a name._

_She looked up from the baby. “Exactly what was supposed to.”_

_“But I thought—” he frowned. “You said you were working—”_

_“I’m not just there when life ends,” she said, echoing something she’d told him years ago. “I’m here when it begins, too.”_

_He didn’t have anything to say to that and followed her wordlessly down the hall to the nursery. Of the forty bassinets they had in this wing, only sixteen were full. Sixteen squirmy bundles of possibility that she’d brought to life with a touch in the last few hours. Steve looked around, seeming afraid to touch anything, while she bent and let Juliette Clarke’s tiny hand wrap around her thumb. “This is…all your handiwork?” he asked after a long minute._

_She glanced up with a grin. “Well, their parents get most of the credit.”_

_His own smile was soft, sweet, slightly embarrassed. “Right.”_

_“It’s not perfect,” she went on thoughtfully. “Puja’s husband was part of the Snap. She didn’t even know she was pregnant when it happened. And Marshall’s older sister,” she nodded to the baby boy closest to Steve. “She’s gone too. But his brother is very excited to meet him. I guess I thought it might help you,” she said, straightening up once Juliette let her go. “If you could see this.”_

_“See what?”_

_“That just because something isn’t fixed doesn’t mean it’s broken.” She looked around and smiled again. All newborns smelled exactly the same. “Broken worlds don’t hold this much hope.”_

_When she met his eyes, his expression had shifted. Softened. For the first time in a long time, he looked hopeful._

“I don’t know you,” Wanda’s voice and her blunt statement pulled Darcy’s head up from where she’d tried to bury it and her attention in a magazine at the kitchen table.

She wanted to tell Wanda that she _did_ know her. That she’d seen her more times than most women twice her age. That her keen perception and sensitivity was telling her that Darcy wasn’t the stranger everyone else saw her as. But out loud, she only shook her head. “No, we haven’t been introduced.”

“I’m going to make them leave,” she said when neither of them took the step to shake hands. They each had more on their minds than polite rituals.

Darcy frowned. “Make who leave?”

“Bucky,” she said with a nod in the direction of the medical wing. “Sam. Viz. Just for a little while.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I don’t know you,” Wanda said again, softly. “But I know you love him. You should have a few minutes with him without feeling like you have to explain to us why you belong there.”

An unexpected lump rose in her throat. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Just give me a few minutes,” the other woman responded.

Darcy waited, expecting there to be an argument or at least a scolding before a quiet trail of people she’d only really ever heard stories about shuffled from Steve’s bedside. But Wanda was much more subtle than that. Vision left to check in with Rhodey. Bucky decided he needed a shower. Sam wanted to call his mother. Natasha required no coaxing as soon as she saw Darcy standing in the doorway.

She stopped on her way out and wrapped her arms tightly around her. “He might still pull through,” she whispered before she let her go.

“Yeah,” Darcy lied tightly as her vision blurred. “He might.”

Nat left them alone and Darcy took the seat Bucky had been occupying. She reached for Steve’s hand and turned it over, so it was palm side up. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced back her tears again. “Please work,” she whispered as she summoned the power she’d used billions and trillions of times before. “Please work, please work, please work—”

But unlike those billions and trillions of times that it had worked in the past, her touch of life did not ignite in her fingertips. There was no familiar, tingling warmth. No soft glow to Steve’s flesh as she sparked the life back to his body.

She grit her teeth and sniffed back her emotions, blinking furiously as she shook her head and tried to refocus her energy. She snapped her wrist, shaking her hand like it a battery that needed to recharge.

“Come on,” she breathed, psyching herself up before she tried again. “Come on, _please_ …”

Nothing.

She tried a third time.

And a fourth.

Nothing.

She stood and leaned in to press her whole palm to his cheek. “Please,” she begged, trying again and again, not sure who she was begging. Maybe Steve. Maybe herself. Maybe someone else. She didn’t know.

She’d never had to beg for anything before.

_It was cold in their room. It was usually cold—Steve was always so hot, he kept the vents closed most nights. When Darcy slept, it was with an extra blanket on her side of the bed and with Steve’s arms around her, keeping her warm._

_That morning, she woke up sharing his pillow, their noses nearly touching as he pulled her in for a soft, sleepy kiss. “Guess what?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper._

_“What?” she replied, kissing him again._

_“I just looked outside.”_

_“And?”_

_When she managed to open her eyes all the way, Steve was smiling. “And it’s snowing.”_

_She inhaled as a silly thrill of excitement zipped up her back. “Really?”_

_His lips met hers a third time. “Really.”_

_“Just a dusting? Or real snow.”_

_“Real snow.”_

_“First real snow of the year…” She smiled into his next kiss. “We should have a snow day.”_

_“Okay,” he agreed easily, wrapping his arms tighter around her while her eyes started to close again. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Do you want to keep sleeping?”_

_“Mmm,” she nodded. “Just for a little bit. Why? Are you getting up?”_

_“Yeah, I think so.” He shuffled out from his side of the bed, leaving her with the warmest spot to slide into and pulling the blankets up and around her shoulders._

_She still groaned, wanting him to come back. “Why?”_

_“Because if we’re having a snow day,” he said leaning down to kiss her temple. “Then I’m going to make you some pancakes.”_

Death did not need to consult her list to know that Steve only had about twelve hours left by the time Bucky returned from his shower. She had lost count of how many times she’d failed to spark life back into his failing body and sat numbly at his side, staring at the hands that had touched her so gently and with so much love only a few days ago.

“So you and Steve were…” Bucky said by way of announcing his return to the hospital room. He trailed off by the time he reached the foot of the bed and pursed his lips together. After a second, he tried again. “Natasha said that you and he—”

“Yeah,” she interrupted softly, not looking up. “We were.”

“The whole time we were all…”

“Yeah,” she said again. “Most of that whole time.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Bucky look from her to Steve and back again before a thoughtful, affectionate smile crossed his face. “Good for him,” he said, almost to himself. A moment later, he had pulled the other chair up from its place against the wall and sat down next to her. To her surprise, he extended his hand for her to shake. “I’m Bucky, by the way.”

She sniffled and shook his hand. It was warm. Everything about Bucky was warm and kind and she was suddenly overcome with gratitude that Steve had been lucky enough to have him as a best friend for so many years. “Hi Bucky,” she said around the fresh rush of emotion that had risen in her throat. “I’m Darcy.” She felt her face crumple as she looked back to Steve for a moment. “God, he missed you,” she said, taking her hand back to push at her tears. “Every minute of the last five years he was trying to get you back…you, Sam, Wanda,” she shook her head. “He loved you all so much.”

“Hey,” Bucky scooted closer and placed an arm around her shoulders. “You’re wrong about that, honey.” When she looked up, confused, he offered another gentle smile and motioned to Steve with his chin. “That idiot? Who wouldn’t know common sense and what’s good for him any of the thousands of times it cracked him over the head?” Bucky waited until she chuckled weakly. “That idiot loves us,” he said, emphasizing the word in the present tense. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “And from what I hear, he loves you too.”

“Yeah,” she sniffled again and reached up to pat the hand he kept at her shoulder. “I know he does,” she said softly. Bucky needed that hope to hold onto. That he’d get to see his best friend again. That they’d get to make up for all the time they’d lost. That Steve hadn’t forgotten to save himself when he saved the world this time.

She let him keep his arm around her, let him tell her stories that would have made Steve’s ears turn pink, because she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. That no matter what they told each other, no matter how much love Steve had for either of them, in eleven hours and twenty-seven minutes, he would be dead.

As the hours of Steve’s life ticked down toward the single digits, Death felt herself starting to slip. It was getting harder to separate herself from Darcy when all she wanted was to stay there and not have her attention divided, her consciousness splintered into a thousand places with a thousand different souls each minute.

And she didn’t know what she would do when one of those souls was Steve’s.

She found herself outside, gulping fresh air, trying not to look at the firepit and remember the first time Steve had pulled her in for a kiss. The chairs were set up the same as they’d been that night.

Someone was sitting in one of them. Their feet up on the ledge as hers had been that night, though there was no fire lit to keep them warm. She took a few steps closer and her heart sank when the recognition clicked into place.

“I’m just going to ask nicely,” she said tiredly, barely raising her voice to carry over. “Please go away. This is not a good time.”

Desire’s polished wingtips glinted in the fading sunlight as they stood and stretched their long willowy arms overhead. To Death’s surprise, the usual smirk was missing from their perfect, painted lips as they came closer. “I know exactly what kind of time it,” they said without the familiar teasing lilt she’d come to know and resent so much. “That’s why I’m here.”

Suspiciously, she searched her sibling’s intentions. She couldn’t find anything other than genuine concern. Compassion. An urge to help. She’d never felt that from Desire before.

Without her permission, her face fell again as another sob swelled in her chest. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she squeaked finally. “I’m not—” she tried to take in a breath. “This can’t be all the time he gets,” she managed. “I want him to have more time.”

Desire folded their arms around her in a warm, tight hug; so out of character, the surprise was nearly enough to stop her tears. “I know,” they said softly, stroking her hair. “I’m so sorry.” They didn’t let go first, let Death hold them as long as she needed until she felt tired and cried out and let herself be led to the nearest chair. Desire sat in front of her, their knees touching, hands clasped together. “I know I tease,” they said carefully, “but even though I’ve always admired you, I’ve never envied your capacity for love. That you can love like they do…” They reached out gently and tucked a dark curl behind her ear. “It only ever seems to cause pain.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking of snow day kisses and the feeling of Steve’s teasing touch against her skin and the sound of plates hitting the table for family dinners each night. “It’s not all pain,” she said quietly before she blinked and shook her head. “Really, Desire, why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“It’s not about what I want, big sister,” the soft smile they wore when she looked up again was so much more pleasant than that usual smirk. “This is about what you want.” When Death could find no words to ask what they meant by that, they went on. “Right now, your desire to save him is the strongest in the cosmos so,” their narrow shoulders moved in a graceful shrug. “I’m here to help you.”

“How? What can you—”

“I can’t do anything, personally,” Desire said quickly. “But I know the only one who can…if you want, I can take you.”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Yes, please.”

As soon as the words left her lips, the world shifted around them. They were in Desire’s realm, in the heart of what they had always called The Threshold. Death felt Desire’s hands on her shoulders as she was turned to face a narrow doorway down the eastern corridor. “If anyone can help you,” they said, their voice right at her ear. “It’s him. Don’t be scared.”

Death walked the corridor alone, her heart hammering in her throat, despite what Desire had said. Her hands shook when she tried the doorknob. It turned easily and as soon as she pushed the door open, she was bathed in warm, white light. Nearly blinded by it when she stepped inside. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust as the door swung shut behind her and she realized she was not alone.

In the center of the room was a small table and chairs. A little boy was playing with Legos, adding to an already impressive construction of a cityscape. He wore a baseball cap to cover his cropped, coarse black hair and when he looked up, his brown eyes sparkled with recognition. He smiled, revealing a little gap between his two front teeth and, despite everything, Death could not help but smile back.

“Hello, Death,” he said and waved her over to join him.

Death took a deep breath to steady herself. “Hi, Dad,” she said as she pulled out the opposite chair and sat down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeees I took some creative liberties with the character at the end. For those familiar with the source material, that *is* The Presence in the form of Wally. I know he/it is not considered the father of The Endless (canonically, their father is Time and their mother is Night) but...well...that wasn't useful knowledge to me and I needed it to be this way for my plot. 
> 
> *keeses*


	9. 2018: Two Hours Remaining

Wally didn’t take his eyes off his Legos while Death joined him. He was concentrating hard, constructing a tower with a skywalk over a river. “Build something,” he suggested lightly when she folded her hands neatly on the table, waiting for him to do more than acknowledge her. “It helps.”

She stared at him for a long moment before she realized he was serious. He expected her to build with him while she asked for his help. Carefully, she picked up a few pieces from the nearest pile and clicked one into place on the base. “Do you know why I’m here?” she asked finally, when the silence grew to be too much.

“No,” he said simply, rolling his shoulder like a kid. 

She cleared her throat. “There’s a man—”

“Sorry,” he looked up, the corner of his lips pulled into a frown. “I know what you came here for,” he clarified. “But I don’t know why you did. I don’t know why Desire thought I could help you.”

Death felt her heart sink. “You…can’t help me? You can’t help him?”

“Help him do what?” Wally asked, tilting his head to one side.

“Live,” she choked out. “Get—get better. Survive.”

“But he has,” Wally said quietly. “For much longer than he was supposed to.”

“He can’t—” she stopped herself. “He can’t just die.”

“But he can,” Wally said. His tone was firm, but gentle and understanding. Still very much a father even in the body of a little boy. “He was always meant to. The soul stone just corrected a mistake that never should have been made. No one lives forever…” His smile was soft and sympathetic, but brief before he turned back to his creation. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“Then not—” her voice caught in her throat. “Not forever. He doesn’t have to be exactly like he was, but please.” Her nails clicked on the plastic table when she dropped her hands down, forcing him to look at her again. “Please don’t make me do this,” she begged softly. “Please. Not now. I—I can’t—” she stopped and looked down.

Across the table, Wally was studying her carefully. When she looked up again, she nearly choked on her own sharp inhale. All around them, where it had been nothing but soft, floaty white space a moment ago, was Steve. Her memories of Steve, projected around them.

The way he tried to hide the way Ruby’s apology had touched him.

Him laughing with Carol and Bruce over a game of cards.

His hand reaching for hers under the table.

A replay of one of the hundreds of times he’d fallen asleep on the couch, his head in her lap while she combed her fingers through his hair.

The way he’d leave a birthday gift for Natasha every year without ever mentioning it.

A thousand soft, perfect kisses.

Twirling a pencil through his fingers while he studied his own drawings with a critical eye.

That soft, shy half-smile.

She felt her heart break the longer she stared at him, surrounding them. Too close and too far away for her to stand it. “Please,” she said again. “I can’t let him go yet. I just need more time.”

The images faded without warning and she felt like someone had stolen all the air from the room. _Bring him back_ , she wanted to say. To beg. To demand of her father. _Let me see him alive for one more minute_. 

“You can’t ask that of me,” Waly said after what felt like a long moment had passed. There was a touch of regret, mixed with the finality in his voice while he returned his attention to the tower taking shape beneath his hands.

Death stared at him caught between cold shock and anger. “I’ve never asked anything of you,” she said softly, her voice just above a whisper. “Not once. Billions and billions of years I’ve done everything you built me to—everything you told me to do. I’ve kept everything in balance,” she reminded him, feeling a growing unease deep within herself. Again she felt something slipping through her fingers, falling a little further away no matter how she scrambled to hold onto it. “Everything. Even after—” she shook her head. There was no time to dwell on what she’d just helped them do, the lives she’d saved and the balance she’d helped restore to the cosmos. “And in all that time I’ve never asked you for anything.”

He shook his head. “It’s too much.”

“Too much?” she repeated hoarsely. “This is a few decades given to one man. This is…” she almost laughed as she shook her head. “In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. This—” she stopped and bit her bottom lip. “This only matters to me. Me and a handful of mortals who have suffered _enough_ for ten lifetimes. They love him,” she said firmly, thinking of the flickering hope that was breaking Bucky’s heart with every beat. The tears that clung to Sam’s eyelashes and sparked in his dark brown eyes. The way Wanda kept finding excuses to straighten and tuck at the sheets of Steve’s hospital bed. To push his hair gently from his face. To take care of him in some small way like he’d taken care of her. “Please don’t make me take him from them.”

To her relief, Wally stopped with his Legos and looked at her squarely. “Death, I know how much you love him,” he said gently. “But that isn’t enough. This is beyond me. Beyond what I’m capable of.” He frowned in sympathy. “I’m sorry. But even I don’t have enough power to do what you’re asking.”

She closed her eyes, releasing two exhausted tears down her cheeks before she opened them again. “You’re the most powerful force in the universe—”

“And I’m telling you,” he spoke plainly, “my power alone isn’t enough to save him.”

“Then use mine,” she said without thinking.

Wally stared at her. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do,” she said firmly. “I’m asking you to use all your power and all you need of mine to bring him back.” When he didn’t respond right away, she went on. “I may not know exactly how powerful you are. But I know how powerful I am. Take what you need,” she said again. “I don’t care. Just as long as he’s okay.”

Across from her, Wally’s features set in a mix of sadness and resignation. “You don’t know what you're asking,” he repeated grimly. 

“ _Yes_ , I do—”

“I would need all of it,” he cut her off. 

She blinked. “All of it?”  
  
“That’s what I’m telling you,” he said, going quiet again. “If you want him to live more than a few hours longer, I would have to take all of your power and channel it into maintaining his life force. It would take that much just to stave off the inevitable for a little while longer. You don’t know what you're asking.”

The realization of what he was saying dawned on her slowly. “No,” she shook her head. “I think I do.” 

“Death—”

Death. That was her name. Her purpose. All she was and all she had to offer. Her gift. Her power. If he had to take it all to bring Steve back, then there would be nothing left of her. 

No more living in a million moments at once. No more standing on alien planets with the light of strange suns on her face. No more wildflowers to tuck into her hair. No more love songs to sway to and movies to watch.

No more her left to be with Steve. 

“Fourteen billion years,” she reminded him softly. Reminded herself. “No one ever mattered. Not like this.” 

It wasn’t just Steve she would mourn. It was all of them. Jane. Thor. Cooper. Natasha. Bruce… As soon as the truth of what he was saying hit her, so did the reality of the depth of her love for all of them. She couldn’t trust herself to be objective anymore. She knew that if any of them were to come too close to her own clutches too soon, she’d be back here again, begging for more time. 

Maybe this was selfishness, trying to save herself additional pain. 

But if she could ensure that Steve would survive, that he would live a long and healthy life, then he could protect them for her. _Would_ protect them. He would love them enough to keep them safe.

Wally’s small hand reached across the table and covered hers. “Death?”

She looked up and swallowed hard. “Will it hurt?”

How many times had she heard that question? How many times had she promised that it wouldn’t? That death was only a doorway, a step over a threshold and nothing more? 

In all that time, she’d never wondered what would wait on the other side of the threshold for her. 

“You know I can’t undo this,” he said, checking her eyes for signs of hesitation. “It’s a one-way ticket. You can’t ever come back here.” 

She nodded and felt a rush of emotion rise in her chest. “I know.”

Wally stood from his side of the table and approached her, a soft, kind smile on his lips. He touched her cheek lightly. “You were always my favorite,” he whispered, making her smile as he bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead. 

She shut her eyes, wondering if anyone would remember her when she was gone, or if she would fade immediately, like she was never there at all. Wondering who the next Death would be. What would happen to her realm. Her sunhats and geodes and immortal goldfish. Wondering if Steve would understand what had happened. What she did. 

And then everything behind her closed eyes went white and she couldn’t wonder anymore.  


When she opened her eyes again, she was in another room filled with misty white light. But this one felt familiar. If she squinted, she could make out faint outlines of a doorway, a chair. A hospital bed.

She felt him before she turned around, her heart cracking at the sight of his mop of dark hair, his sweeping cloak of the night sky. He smiled. “Hello.”

“Where are we, Morpheus?”

“We are dreaming, of course,” he said simply. “But when you wake, I suspect you’ll be exactly where you want to be.” 

She frowned. “When I wake?” she repeated. “How can I…” she felt her forehead wrinkle. “I thought I was dead…or,” she shook her head. “Gone, at least.”

“Who you were as Death is gone,” he said patiently. “But the mortal you chose, Darcy?” 

“...Yes?”

“Darcy is still very much alive…” he lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her to follow him. 

“I’m…just Darcy now?” She’d always been Darcy, of course, but she’d been a million other things too. The single, solitary name fell around her like sparkling confetti. So simple and perfect and right. “I’m just Darcy?”

Morpheus nodded. “You’re just Darcy. Perfectly mortal.” 

His smile dimmed just a little bit and she felt her heart twist again. 

“So this is goodbye then, little brother?” 

“Actually, this is an apology,” he said and reached for her hand. She gave it to him without hesitation. “Your sacrifice. Your…” he paused thoughtfully. “Your love for these humans. It’s not weakness at all.” He smiled again and squeezed her hand. “It’s beautiful.”

Darcy’s vision blurred. It was a goodbye, no matter what Morpheus said. She closed the distance between him and wrapped him in a tight hug. His embrace was like stepping outside on a perfectly crisp October night. He smelled like leaves and fire and a place to feel safe and all the things that would bring her comfort. She reached a hand up to pet his silky, wild hair. “Of everything I’ve given up,” she said softly, letting her chin rest on his shoulder, “I think I’ll miss you most of all.” 

He didn’t bother to hide his wet eyes when he finally stepped out of her hug. “You don’t have to miss me, sweet sister,” he said and took both her hands in his, dropping his head to press a kiss to them before he straightened up. “I will always make time to pay you a visit.” 

When she opened her eyes a second time, it was to the sound of someone saying her name. 

“Darcy, wake up.”

Darcy.

Her name.

“Darcy, come on.”

The only name she ever had to claim for the rest of her life. 

She struggled to open her eyes and pull herself to sitting in the chair where she’d sat with Desire. She blinked in confusion. It was morning. It was chilly and the sky was a soft, silvery blue. And Jane was standing over her. “Jane?”

Her friend laughed lightly and looked around. “You slept out here all night?” she admonished before she took Darcy’s hand in hers. “Come on, come inside and warm up. It’s Steve. He’s—” 

But Jane didn’t have time to tell her. Darcy broke away from her and took off for the medical wing at a sprint.

Bruce and Dr. Samson were outside of Steve’s room, speaking in low tones. But Bruce smiled wide when he looked up and saw her coming. He caught her easily by the arms, stalling her run and letting her crash into him. 

“Is he okay?” she asked breathlessly. “Is—”

“We just sent Jane to come get you,” Bruce said calmly, his smile still firmly in place. “He’s awake. He’s responsive to all stimuli and his vitals have been improving by the minute.” He gave her arms a friendly squeeze. “He asked for you.”

Her heart thudded in her ears and she felt a sob of relief sitting high in her chest. “Can I see him?” 

Darcy started crying as soon as she stepped inside the room. Steve was still in bed where she’d left him, but the ventilator had been removed. The color was returning to his cheeks and he smiled the moment their eyes met. She forced herself to stand next to him and not throw herself on his chest like she wanted. 

He reached for her hand. “Hi,” he said. His voice was hoarse and low and Darcy’s new favorite sound in the world. 

She smiled, blinking furiously to clear her vision, making sure her tears weren’t hiding him from her. “Hi.”

Their fingers tangled together and Steve wet his dry lips. “Where are you?”

Darcy stepped closer and bent so her free hand could push his hair from his eyes. “I’m here,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. 

He swallowed hard. “And where else?”

She shook her head, smiling with giddy realization that she never had to be anywhere else ever again. “Just here.”

“Just here?” he repeated, his brow furrowing slowly in confusion. “With me?”

She nodded; two stray tears dropped from her cheeks onto his. “Just here with you.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I can explain later,” she promised and let his hand go so he could reach up and hold her face, pulling her down carefully for a soft, slow kiss.

She would explain later, she promised herself. Because she could explain later. 

They didn’t have forever, but they still had plenty of time.


	10. 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached the end of another fic, my kittens. Thanks to everyone who took a chance on this totally bizarre fusion and let me play in two of my favorite worlds at once for a few months. You are angels and I love you.

“Hey, Captain America!”

On reflex, Steve’s head shot up, nearly smashing on the open trunk door. Bucky shot him a grin as he hitched his duffle bag over his shoulder, propping open the door to the kitchen of the compound on his way out.

“Not you,” Bucky shooed at him before he nodded over Steve’s shoulder. “The real one. Sam!”

Sam jogged over as Steve rolled his eyes and let Bucky throw his own bag in the trunk. “Smartass,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“Natasha’s got Hill on the comm,” he said, jerking his thumb back toward the kitchen. “Said it’ll only take a minute.” He waited until Sam was all the way inside before he leaned against the car and crossed his arms. “Is that weird?”

Steve shuffled the bags around—there was still room for Wanda’s things whenever she finished packing—and closed the trunk. “What?” he asked with a smile. “That Sam’s in charge now? Or that you’re a jerk? Because either way,” his shoulder moved easily, “no. Not weird at all.”

Bucky’s grin dimmed just a little. “How’re you feeling, anyway?”

“Good,” he answered honestly. That hadn’t always been the case in the fourteen months that had passed since he’d woken up from his jump on Vormir. The serum was gone and with it went his heightened senses, his insane metabolism, and his super-soldier healing capabilities. He had to recover just like everybody.

It had been hard.

And painful.

And frustrating.

But he’d done it because the alternative was giving up. Wasting away in his hospital bed, missing out on living in the world he’d saved so many times he’d lost count, wasting the gift Darcy had sacrificed so much to give him.

Bucky was eyeing him, still a little wary. Steve smiled again and swatted at his arm. “I’m good, Buck,” he said, sincerely. “Got the okay from all the doctors,” he reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out the now-familiar blue plastic device that went with him everywhere, “got my inhaler,” he tucked it away and said again, “I’m good.”

It wasn’t all bad. Asthma was considerably easier to treat in the 21st century than it had been in the 30s. A laser surgery had corrected his poor eyesight again. He didn’t constantly feel hungry or like he was shoveling coal into a steam engine that wouldn’t stop like he had from the moment the serum entered his veins. He could just eat a normal amount of food and stop when he was full. He could _feel_ full again. He could sleep in on days when he didn’t have anything planned, his body no longer jolting him awake with an immeasurable amount of energy to burn as soon as he opened his eyes.

And he’d stayed the same height. Something that, even though he’d never admit it, he’d vainly let himself worry about. 

“Okay,” Bucky said, holding up one hand. “I believe you. But, uh,” his broad smile returned as his other hand emerged from his pocket and jingled a familiar set of car keys. “I’m driving. Just to be safe.”

Steve’s shoulders fell as he sighed. “I leave those on the table?”

“Sure did,” Bucky laughed. “And you’re gonna want to blame your woman for this,” he jingled them again. “She watched me pick them up and said nothing.”

“I’m not blaming Darcy,” he said with a laugh. “I’m blaming you, you key-stealing son of a bitch.”

“Not blaming Darcy for what?”

The woman in question appeared in the doorway, her sunglasses perched on her head, in front of her messy bun. The straps of her bikini were visible amidst the straps of her sundress and Steve felt a silly little thrill at the realization that she’d worn the red one. His favorite.

“For Bucky stealing my keys and thinking he’s driving my car all the way to the beach,” he informed her, lifting his arm without hesitation so she could tuck herself against his side.

“Oh, you can blame me for that,” she said easily and gave him a little hug when he scoffed. She looked up with a grin. “What?” she asked innocently. “Maybe I just wanted a few hours in the backseat with you.”

Steve smiled down at her, his heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with his medical chart. He let his nose brush against hers when she stretched up on her tiptoes. “Oh, well when you put it like that—”

“Okay,” Bucky cleared his throat loudly the moment before their lips touched. “I’m gonna go tell everyone else to move it,” he said, backing up toward the house.

Before Bucky was gone, Darcy had closed the distance between them and brushed her lips to his. Soft and warm and tasting faintly like mango lip balm. She smiled softly to herself when she sank back down. “What is it?” he asked.

“I just realized,” she bit her bottom lip for a moment, her head tilting to one side. “I’ve never been on a real vacation before.”

“Y’know?” he felt himself mirror his smile. “I don’t think I have either.”

“Well then,” she stretched up and brushed another quick kiss to his lips. “I think we’re both well overdue.”

Steve leaned against the car and dropped his other hand to Darcy’s waist, pulling her gently to stand in front of him. His stomach twisted with nerves as he thought about the diamond ring he’d tucked into the very bottom of his suitcase. The one he was planning to give her as soon as they had a moment they could be truly alone. “Y’know,” he coughed lightly. “I don’t know that I ever thanked you,” he said. “For what you did.”

“Steve…”

“No, I just…” he shook his head. “I don’t want you to think I’ve ever forgotten what you gave up or that I don’t worry you might…”

She raised her eyebrows and ducked her head, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “I might what?” she repeated. “Regret it?”

He didn’t want to think like that, but he couldn’t help it. He’d barely experienced an ounce of what she’d once been capable of. She’d seen and done more in a moment than most people manage in a lifetime. She’d witnessed the birth and death of whole galaxies. Things he could never comprehend. More magic and wonder than he would ever be able to understand.

“You _did_ give up…forever just to be with me,” he reminded softly, lacing his hands at the small of her back to pull her closer. A reassurance that no matter what, in _this_ moment, she was there with him.

“No, I didn’t.” She shook her head, sliding her hands up his chest to rest on his shoulders. “I didn’t give up forever,” she replied. “I just chose a different one. One I get to spend with you.”

He felt his heart stutter in his chest, and he dropped his chin to press his forehead to hers. “I love you.”

She smiled softly. “I love you too.”

“Alright lovebirds!” Wanda’s voice carried over like a song as she hauled her suitcase down the few steps from the house. She pointed to them playfully when they stepped apart so she could access the trunk. “Plenty of time for that once we get to the beach.”

Steve grinned despite his pink cheeks. “Everything okay with Hill?” he asked, knowing she’d been on the same call with Sam.

She nodded. “All clear.”

Sam and Natasha were the last out of the building. “Got the all clear from Hill,” he said, repeating Wanda as they made their way toward the car. “Unless something goes ‘cataclysmically wrong’—”

“Hill’s words,” Wanda chimed in.

“Team Cap is officially on vacation,” Sam finished his sentence with a broad grin. “Whose riding with who?”

They split themselves up between Steve’s car and Sam’s while Darcy got on her phone to tell Jane they were on their way. The beach house where they were headed was big enough to house the whole family and most of them were already waiting.

***

The next time Steve Rogers met Death, he was 156 years old.

He was sitting up, waiting for her in the house he and Darcy had filled with photos and love and laughter and a long life, well and truly lived.

“Hello Steve,” she said when she appeared. Her voice was soft, friendly.

He smiled. “I was wondering when you’d get around to me.”

She smiled back. “Are you ready to come with me?”

He looked around at the room that had felt too big, too empty in the last few months, just like the rest of the house. Like the rest of his life. “Yes,” he said with a slow nod. “I think I am.” A thought occurred to him before he got to his feet. “Do—do you remember my wife?” he asked, not sure why he needed to know. He would still have his faith that he would see her again, no matter what Death said. That the forever they’d promised each other would keep going, just in a different way.

But Death’s smile brightened. “I do,” she answered. “She warned me about you, as a matter of fact.”

Steve felt his heart swell. “Did she tell you I might get stuck?”

To his surprise, Death laughed. “She told me to watch out,” she said. “That you had a habit of flirting with death.”

He stopped for a moment as Darcy’s last joke settled over him and then he laughed harder than he had in months. “Well, she was right about that,” he admitted softly.

“She’s waiting for you,” Death said and extended her hand.

Steve took it and went with her gladly.

_-fin-_

**Author's Note:**

> Come and play: @idontgettechnology and ishipitpod.com
> 
> ❤️❤️❤️


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